


Turn Your World Around

by alyxpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Eventual Romance, Gen, M/M, Paranormal investigation, good old fashioned ghost story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-28 18:45:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 24,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3865666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock were a psychic and John were a paranormal investigator who couldn't see and so didn't believe in ghosts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Dead Can Be Dull, Sometimes

 

> “Only once in your life, I truly believe, you find someone who can completely turn your world around. You tell them things that you’ve never shared with another soul and they absorb everything you say and actually want to hear more.”
> 
> “You open your heart knowing that there’s a chance it may be broken one day and in opening your heart, you experience a love and joy that you never dreamed possible. You find that being vulnerable is the only way to allow your heart to feel true pleasure that’s so real it scares you. You find strength in knowing you have a true friend and possibly a soul mate who will remain loyal to the end.” --Bob Marley

* * *

 

**Chapter One: The Dead Can Be Dull, Sometimes**

“What about that one over there?” Ophelia queries from her perch on the tall stool, swinging her long legs back and forth and twirling her hair around her finger like the bored twelve year old that she is. Leaning back to rest her elbows on the worktop, she points with her chin to indicate the body still in its black bag on the other side of the morgue.

Sherlock frowns at the interruption and stands up slowly, grunting when his spine pops loudly in protest from where he’s been leaning over the corpse for the past half hour. He glances towards the second stainless steel table and opens his mouth as if to answer her with the usual long, dense string of facts.

“She’s told me nothing,” he grudgingly mutters instead. The complete absence of any telling data at all is difficult enough to explain without adding her smug pronouncement from earlier to the mix. He flat out refuses to tell her she’s right.

Ophelia narrows her blue eyes at the unspoken words left hanging in midair then purses her lips and blows a rebellious auburn ringlet off her forehead. “What about her?”

Sherlock huffs almost quietly as he turns back to the blonde-haired young woman on the slab in front of him. Rather than admit he’s getting absolutely nothing from the corpse, he pretends to be interested in a mole on the side of the dead woman’s jaw. He closes his eyes and tries to let his mind relax, stubbornly seeking the threads of communication he already knows do not exist. Disregarding Ophelia’s questioning expression, he strides purposely over to the second body, unzips the bag, gazes down at the girl for ten seconds and just as quickly zips it right back up.

“Sherlock? I really need to get these ladies comfortable for the night. If you’re finished, that is?” Doctor Hooper calls out from the doorway of her office. Her face is turned away from him where she’s watching a program on her computer run through a complicated string of equations in order to check the parameters of a test he personally designed to check for organic markers in frozen red blood cells.

“Yes, Molly, I’ve seen all there is to see.”

“Good, then, what do you think…” Molly begins, but Sherlock has already swept out of the room, coattails swishing as he passes through the double doors.

Molly rolls her eyes and takes her hands out of her lab coat pockets then steps into the workspace to begin the nightly ritual of cleaning up. The tall stool set off to the side of the room gives her pause. She decides that with Sherlock there’s always some explanation for whatever he deems necessary when investigating a crime as she slides it back into its place. Maybe tomorrow she’ll ask him about it if there’s time. For tonight, it’s late and she really needs to get home and feed Toby.

*

Sherlock does not enjoy driving. In all honesty, he prefers to take a cab to get around, but the almost hour long distance from his house to the morgue tends to get expensive very quickly. He’s been running a bit low on funds the past couple of weeks, though with the case he finished prior to today’s waste of time, he’ll have an income again.

As he negotiates the roads which are practically empty at this late hour going out of the city, Sherlock watches Ophelia fidget in the passenger seat. She keeps switching from gnawing on her already short fingernails to picking at the hems of her denim shorts. She’s wearing her favorite blue and white striped blouse and for a moment he finds himself wondering if he should get her a light jacket for the unpredictable British spring weather.

“Sherlock, you worry too much. You’re starting to act like Mycroft. I’m fine.”

For a second their eyes meet and Ophelia smiles. After grinning back, Sherlock returns his attention on the road, fighting himself against counting the lines on the pavement as the car passes over them. After the usual amount of time, he turns into the long driveway leading up to what was once a beautifully appointed country home but is now beginning to look its age, as it is desperate need of a fresh coat of paint or twenty and more than a little bit of fixing up. The light nearest the front door is broken, its bulb hanging by a single wire and swaying in the scant night breeze.

Sherlock ignores it all, however, moving up the stone walkway to the front door in several long strides after slamming the car door shut.

“Sherlock,” Ophelia calls out from where she’s quickly gaining on him. Her hair has gone wispy, long tendrils framing her face and sticking out from the rubber band holding her ponytail. She steps through the door as he starts to close it.

As if on cue, the sound of a dog yipping and howling from somewhere deep in the huge house starts up only to stop abruptly. Sherlock rolls his eyes, hangs his coat on the hook on the back of the door then looks to Ophelia, who is blocking the walkway through the room and watching him with her hands on her hips.

“Don’t do that, you look just like Mummy,” he states blandly.

“Ha! You wish. Are you eating tonight?” Ophelia counters.

Sherlock actually considers it for a moment. “No, I don’t think so.”

“What are you going…” Ophelia tries.

Sherlock cuts her off before she can get a head of steam going. “Enough, Ophelia. Please, just. Just leave me alone for a while.” He looks towards the staircase and a perfect picture of his favorite solution to all of life’s problems flashes through his mind.

“You don’t have to do that, you know. You could…” Ophelia looks around the decrepit sitting room. “Oh! I know,” she says brightly. “You could stay down here and maybe we could play a game? Or you could just talk to me…” her eyes glisten wetly in the dim nightlight from the kitchen.

“Ophelia,” Sherlock snorts, stopping his ascent up the staircase with his hand on the bannister. “How can I talk to you when you already know everything?”

“I can listen,” she says quietly, stepping closer to him, her bare feet making no sound on the dusty antique Persian carpet.

Sherlock smacks the wood with his palm. “No, not now. I need to be alone. For the moment, I’m tired of the dead.”

*

Sherlock doesn’t leave his bedroom for three days after that. Part of his mind senses Ophelia flitting about the house, doing whatever it is that she does but mostly she seems aware of his desire and leaves him well enough alone.

In the early morning twilight of the third day, Sherlock cracks his eyes and groans against the cruel intrusion of the post dawn greyness that doesn’t deserve to be called ‘sunlight.’ The cocaine helps blur the constant buzz of voices that forever linger on the edges of his consciousness. He pays for it, though, once the high is gone and every detail he’s ever taken in remains as if branded on the walls of his Mind Palace. All the faces of the ones he could help plus the ones he couldn’t save.

Sometimes they are too heavy a load to bear. He’s not proud of the fact that he turns to illicit substances to help him over the rough patches, quite the opposite. Sherlock detests the choices that he made in his twenty nine years of life that led him to where he is now.

He’d always dreamt of doing something useful with his life, not staying here in this strange blend of limbo and living. On one hand, he knows that there are people who find him useful, the majority of them at New Scotland Yard, no doubt—but on the other hand, there’s no one he’s ever really connect with and it wouldn’t be hard to end it. Just a little too much in the needle one night and he could slip beneath the velvet waves of unconsciousness…

“Sherlock.” A tight voice says from the general direction of the armchair in the corner of his room.

“Mycroft, go away.” Sherlock’s own voice is raspy.

“You’ve upset Ophelia.”

“Really, Mycroft? Now you’re going to pretend she’s here?” Sherlock opens his eyes all the way now, wincing in disgust at his well-groomed and perfectly dressed elder brother primly perched in the only other place left to sit in the room beside the bed.

Mycroft’s expression mirrors his brother’s for a moment. He flexes the fingers of the hand resting atop the large umbrella between his legs and decides that he’s just going to wait this time. Sherlock has never been the most forthcoming about his emotions, and Mycroft has a pretty good idea what brought this newest binge of drug use on; still, he waits for the explanation.

Knowing he’s never going to win this silent war, Sherlock huffs and rolls over onto his stomach. “I couldn’t solve it,” he bitches to his pillow.

Mycroft merely nods.

“That’s it?” Sherlock spits venomously, though any edge to it is lost in the worn fabric covering the pillow now scrunched up within an inch of its life. Tiny pieces of feathers poke through at the edge of it.

“Get yourself cleaned up, Sherlock, I’ve a job for you.” Mycroft gracefully stands, one hand smoothing down his waistcoat, the gold band on his finger glinting in the soft new sunlight peeking through the torn curtain over the only window in the room.

Sherlock counts Mycroft’s footsteps and remains insolently on his stomach until he knows his brother has had time to leave the house. Rolling over, he thinks that maybe this time it wasn’t worth it.

“Ophelia!” he bellows at the top of his lungs, which is a mistake because it sets his head to pounding. He grits his teeth against the pain, knowing full well there’s no one else to blame for it but himself.

“Yes, you worthless, lazy, scuzbag of an excuse for a brother?”

“That’s nice.” Sherlock scoots himself upward in order to rest against the dark wooden headboard in order to accept the glass of water she sits down on the bedside table. After a few seconds of feeling Ophelia’s angry gaze on him, he politely clears his throat. “I get the impression that I need to apologize.”

“Indeed.” Ophelia agrees, taking the seat Mycroft just vacated with an equal amount of grace.

It hurts to admit that he has no idea what he’s apologizing for, so he simply blurts out a half-hearted “I’m sorry.”

Ophelia nods. “Yeah, well, I don’t believe you, but you should be.”

Sherlock waits for her to continue. Ophelia waits for it to catch up with him. When it is obviously not going to, she hums a little under her breath.

“What?” he asks without looking at her. He’s got something gross beneath his fingernails. It occurs to him then that he desperately needs to shower. “How long?” he finally bites out.

“Three days this time,” she informs him.

Now he really does feel bad. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone…”

“Yes you did,” Ophelia snaps. “You always do.”

Well, yeah, he did. But why should she get to say it first? “Come on, tell me what happened.” He orders with The Smirk that usually works on her. But…

Not this time.

“No, Sherlock. I know it doesn’t matter to you because you have oh so many people to talk to all the time, but you…you’re all I have! How can you just go off and leave me like that? With nothing but your body lying here and I don’t know if you’re alive or dead!”

As if. “Does it really matter?” Sherlock asks, pitching his voice low.

“Don’t talk like that.” Ophelia says around the nail of her index finger.

“Out with it.” After a heartbeat, he adds, “Please.”

“Fine.” She drops her hand to the arm of the chair and pulls her legs up beneath herself. “You woke up and asked me what I was doing here. I said I was keeping an eye on you and you…” she pauses to take what seems like a reassuring breath. Her blue eyes flick to his face then to the ceiling and back again. “You asked me if I had anywhere else to be.”

“And you said no,” he states, suddenly remembering the conversation.

Ophelia nods. “Right. I always say no. Only you didn’t stop there…”

“I didn’t.” Sherlock knows it now. “I said there’s at least one place you should be.”

Again, she nods, eyes welling with tears. When she whispers into the now-heavy silence of a promising new morning suddenly gone cold, her voice trembles.

“My grave.”

 

***

John Watson feels that he is an odd man in anyone’s estimation. He’s a wounded, invalidated veteran who has seen far too much death and destruction for his thirty-three years on the planet. He was raised devout Anglican but after a four year tour of duty in the Afghan desert, he’s pretty sure that there isn’t a flavour of religion that is for him. Which is fine, he knows, all fine, considering what he does for a living and the fact that being open minded is a prerequisite for it. One certainly cannot take sides in this business, that’s for sure.

Mike Stamford, John’s boss and long-time friend, is the original founder of LOPNI: London Paranormal Investigation. When people ask him what that means exactly, and they do because John is the kind of bloke that everyone talks to whether he’s in the mood for conversation or not, he does his best to explain that they visit alleged hauntings and do their best to retrieve any scientific proof that spirits exist.

They do pretty well at it, too, considering that since he signed up with Mike three months ago they’ve been on over fifteen jobs. They’ve collected EVPs, videos of moving objects, thermal photographs, heard lots of creepy knocks on walls and dozens of other pieces of data that prove that even if there aren’t any spirits banging about in these places that at least _something_ is there. John will swear without a doubt about that something because of the way the little hairs stand up on the back of his neck and his skin crawls with the feeling that he’s being watched when he knows full well he’s the only one in the room. Sometimes it reminds him of being on patrol in the desert, all too aware of where your enemies are and how much firepower they had at their fingertips.

So, yeah, John can attest that there is certainly something. And that finding that particular something or somethings is getting him a bigger paycheck than he could be making at the local surgery, that is if they would even hire him with the intermittent trembling in his hand and slight bit of what he’s fairly certain is PTSD…but.

Even with all that proof, John isn’t one hundred percent convinced that what they’ve been experiencing are human spirits. He’s got his own thoughts about the whole thing, yet there’s never been a good time to discuss them with anyone other than Mike. They’ve known each other for more than twenty years and on most subjects Mike doesn’t say too much, but about the existence of the spirit world he is absolutely adamant.

At the moment, John is nursing his third cup of coffee at an old wooden table in Mrs. Norton’s kitchen in Newham. It is well past midnight and he’s heard not a sound all night except the squeaking of the chair he keeps tipping up onto its back legs so he has to concentrate on not falling. To say he’s almost bored to tears would be an understatement. Beyond the dark windows, the city outside is quiet enough that it seems like someone has pushed some cosmic ‘mute’ button.

Idly, John picks at the edge of the table as an image forms in his mind of a small family gathering: children laughing as one of them makes silly faces at the other, the mom and dad beaming with pride at their little brood…

His meandering thoughts grind to a halt instantly as the sound of a slamming door echoes down the hall. He’s immediately on alert, quickly going over his own movements since he’s been in the house. John remembers locking that door, so that leaves two choices: there’s been a break in or Mrs. Norton’s claims that her deceased husband still resides in the house may have some truth to them beyond the ramblings of a lonely eighty year old woman.

John quietly gets out of his chair and pushes it back under the table. If this is an unwelcome intruder, he needs as much space as possible. He listens for a moment until he realizes that since the door slam, the only other sound in the place is someone talking. John cocks his head to one side and steps up to the doorway in order to hear better the deep voice of a man who seems to be talking to himself. He doesn’t recognize the voice so he listens closer.

“Mister Norton, I’m not sure that I can help you,” the man is saying. To John, there’s only silence, but apparently the stranger can make out more.

Before he gets anything else, the device in John’s pocket vibrates. He tugs it out and stares at the multitude of wild red, orange and yellow spikes all over the place. John steps back into the kitchen and presses the button on the blue tooth in his ear.

“Confirmed EVP,” he tells Dale Drummond, LOPNI’s tech expert.

“Let me pull you up on the map, John,” Dale informs him. “Ten seconds.”

“Acceptable.” John agrees, hoping his voice hasn’t carried to the stranger.

“Holy shit, John,” Dale whistles lowly into John’s ear. “There’s so much EVP that I can’t separate them right now. Any visuals?”

John shakes his head. “Not yet,” he states as he reaches into his jacket for the specially crafted glasses Mike gave him. He slides them onto his face and the entire room changes. Ignoring Dale’s questioning exclamation when John inhales sharply, John takes another look at the scene.

There are now three distinct entities sitting in the kitchen: in two of the chairs, a young boy and a girl, probably twins, seeming to be about ten years old, and another girl, much younger, seated cross-legged in the center of the table. She grins at John and waves at him as if greeting a long-lost favorite uncle. John blinks twice and wonders how long he’s been this close to these emanations without realizing it.

John is speechless as another young woman saunters into the kitchen from the hallway with a cheery “hello” in his direction. Her form is more solid than the others, a fact made clearer when she joins them at the table. Where the other children seem to be the wispy fragments of a memory, everything about them indistinct except for their eyes, the newcomer is almost corporeal, her striped blouse and denim shorts as clear to John as the dark clothing he’s wearing.

The sound gathering device in his hand is vibrating like a mobile phone being blown up via text messages by an angry ex. For the first time since taking this job, however, John finds himself rooted to the spot, intrigued by the level of detail he’s not seen before. The small group at the table is laughing and seems almost to have forgotten his presence when he’s finally able to make his lips, tongue and throat work again. Rule One: apparitions are still people and should be respected as such.

He clears his throat. “Good evening.” Rule Two: be polite.

“Good evening,” the older girl says. She reaches up to brush back a ginger curl that’s fallen down over her face then lets her fingers trail backwards through a long ponytail.

Everything about her is inconsistent with what Mike has taught John about the spectral world. He is fascinated. “May I?” he asks, indicating the chair at the head of table.

“Sure,” the girl says as the other kids nod, even the littlest one.

“So,” John begins after a moment where they all regard each other warily. “My name is John Watson.”

“Hi John!” The redheaded girl laughs as she points at the boy. “This is James and his sister Janey.”

“We’re twins.” They inform him in unison. John nods.

“This is Mary Beth,” Janey indicates the little girl on the table. The little girl beams up at all of them, a joyful little gap-toothed expression only marred by the fact John can see the table through her.

It suddenly occurs to John with startling clarity that all of these children are dead and he winces.

“I haven’t told you my name yet, John,” the redheaded girl says softly. She meets his eyes and he is taken aback to see tears there.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. You are the first that I’ve actually seen.”

The girl quirks a neat auburn eyebrow at him, “Well, I guess you don’t think that’s blatantly obvious, then, do you?”

John chuckles, allowing the tense mood to be broken. “Who are you, then? This doesn’t seem to be your regular…” he trails off, not wanting to use the word ‘haunt’ for fear of insulting her and making them all go away.

The girl holds her hand out towards John. He takes it, amazed at the solid, though cool, feel of her skin against his own.

“My name is Ophelia Holmes,” she informs him with a smile, “And I am here to help you.”


	2. Tea and Conversation

**Chapter Two: Tea & Conversation  
**

John doesn’t have a chance to find out exactly what the girl means by that statement, however, because a tall, thin man in a ridiculous wool coat has appeared on the kitchen threshold. He is slowly, almost sensuously unaware, pulling off a pair of black leather gloves one long finger at a time. John can feel the demeanor of all four of the spirits change and he drops Ophelia’s hand as if he’s been burnt.

Ophelia laughs, her voice a joyous bell-like melody that lightens John’s heart. She follows John’s eyes with her own, watching closely as he scrutinizes her brother from head to feet and back again. Mary Beth, still seated on the table, giggles and makes a wet sound with her tongue. Janey pulls her down and into her lap in order to cuddle the baby in her arms. James doesn’t move except for his brown eyes that are so dark they’re almost black. The boy tightens his lips and a clever, intuitive expression passes over his features.

John doesn’t see any of these things, however, because he cannot seem stop himself from staring at the commanding figure in the doorway. A hush falls around them until Ophelia breaks it.

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” she starts, only to be interrupted by a smooth, rich baritone.

“You are LOPNI?” The mysterious stranger asks, green eyes holding John’s full attention, obviously uninterested in further introductions.

“Yes,” John croaks, determined not to argue that it isn’t pronounced Low-penny and should be Lop-knee. Somehow he feels that his words would fall on deaf ears anyway. The stranger’s beautiful lips are moving and John realizes then that he’s still staring.

“I’m sorry?” he manages not to stutter.

The man, Sherlock, huffs in irritation then crosses the room in two strides to settle at the table on the chair next to Ophelia. She grins up at him.

“Sherlock, John’s not a believer,” she says knowledgeably.

Sherlock frowns, still only looking at John.

“Well, come on!” she retorts. “He said I’m the first ‘one’ he’s seen.” Ophelia turns her icy gaze to John. “Come to think of it, what exactly did you mean by that?”

John is finally able to break the spell by turning his head in her direction. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a faint movement, like heat dissipating in the air as Janey, James, and Mary Beth disappear. At one time in his life that may have surprised him, but that is no longer the case. There is just too much happening right here right now to try and make sense of it all.

When John returns his attention to Sherlock, he is instantly hit with the feeling that everything he is must be right out in the open for the other man to see. He watches Sherlock warily, unsure as to what to even say.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “She’s correct. Why would you take a job working for a paranormal investigation company if you’ve never seen…” his words trail off but his eyes flicker over every part of John visible to him, and probably some things not so much. Finally, he says, “Ah.”

Beside Sherlock, Ophelia continues to smile up at John.

That single syllable breaks John’s bubble. “What do you mean, ‘ah?’” he asks, growing irritated.

“I’ve been given to think that I should not…”

John almost growls. Tapping his index finger on the abused table top, he snaps, “Just say it.”

Sherlock looks to Ophelia then tilts his chin towards John. “All the evidence that I can see clearly says you have no psychic powers and have never seen a ghost. No religious affiliations…really, nothing special about you at all. So, again, why are you doing this job?”

Nothing special? John wonders. What is that supposed to mean? He doesn’t ask, though, instead, as he pushes away from the table, he says, “I see.”

Ophelia frowns at Sherlock as John stands up. Sherlock frowns right back. He can feel his sister’s ire but decides to ignore it.

“Well, since I am pretty useless here, I’d like to say it’s been nice to meet you, yay, but…no, no it probably wasn’t.” John shakes his head and pushes the button on his Bluetooth. “False alarm,” he tells Dale, “I’m coming home.”

He’s almost through the kitchen doorway when Sherlock’s voice makes him stop. “You didn’t ask me about Mister Norton, John.”

“What makes you think I give a flying…?” John starts, fully exasperated with it all now. He balls his hands into fists at his sides, fighting to maintain his composure and seriously wondering how in the world this stranger has upset him so quickly.

Ophelia cuts over him smoothly. “Mister Norton says he isn’t haunting his wife. He is protecting her.”

The girl’s words give him pause. He wipes his hand over his mouth and regards the two of them. “What?”

Sherlock nods once. “Mister and Misses Norton never had any children.”

That takes a moment to sink in. John sighs and drops back down in the chair he just vacated. “Who were they, then?” he asks, gesturing at the table top where Mary Beth had been sitting.

“That is what I intend to find out. I will contact you tomorrow.” With that, Sherlock moves across the kitchen in a graceful whirl, Ophelia close on his heels.

John watches them leave feeling like he’s missed something big somewhere, only he’s so far lost that he’s never going to figure it out. He shakes his head again, turns off the EVP device that’s been going apeshit in his pocket for the past ten minutes, then leaves the house. He has to stop at LOPNI headquarters and give his report before he can head home, but his mind is so full of intensely glinting green eyes that he doubts he’ll be able to concentrate enough to give a coherent rundown of the little meeting in which he just found himself taking part.

***

Sherlock stretches his legs out, bare feet skidding gently over the Persian rug in his sitting room. He’s slouched down in his chair, elbows on the arms of it, fingers studiously steepled beneath his chin. Now dressed in a worn pair of track bottoms and an old baby blue t-shirt, he is the very picture of an irritated genius. According to the words Ophelia has been droning under her breath for the past half hour anyway.

“Give it up, Sherlock. He’s way out of your league,” she mutters from where’s she stretched out on her back across the top of the back of the couch, one hand over her chest and the other one hanging loosely, fingers pointing towards the seat cushions.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in his sister’s direction but does not turn his head or otherwise acknowledge the ridiculousness that is spilling from her mouth. After a few more minutes of this, he sighs. “What are you on about?”

“Oh come on!” She dramatically bats her eyelids and does her best imitation of a man’s deep voice. “My name is John Watson and I’m only here so certain consulting psychics can brag about how good they are…”

“Ophelia, really?” Sherlock snorts.

Ophelia giggles. “God, no one is that dense. Definitely not you.” She turns her head to the side to regard him with a shrewd expression beyond her years then grins. “Watt-son and Holmes sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” she sings.

Sherlock huffs. “He doesn’t even like me.”

“He doesn’t know you.”

“I’ve almost had enough of this conversation, thank you.” Sherlock closes his eyes to stop himself from blurting out that when people bother to get to know him they get hurt and he’d rather avoid everything that goes along with it.

“Awww, don’t be like that.” Ophelia states as she drops off the back of the couch to the cushions below, crossing her legs. “I’m tired of seeing you so alone.”

Sherlock doesn’t answer her this time, though he doesn’t move out of his chair either. On the little table next to him, his mobile starts vibrating so hard it’s dancing on the tabletop.

“It might be Greg…” Ophelia tries, pointing at it as if it’s same rare specimen of animal she’s never seen.

Sighing as if he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, Sherlock plucks the phone up between his thumb and index finger then flips it over. He tip taps out an answer to Lestrade’s text then vanishes up the staircase. Ophelia stays where she is, stretched out on the couch.

When Sherlock reappears ten minutes later, he’s dressed in one of his normal suits and his hair is dripping slightly. “Come on,” he says, opening the front door.

Ophelia grins, her expression only faltering when the barking at the back of the house starts up again. Sherlock sees her face and lightly brushes his hand against her shoulder. Fine again, she hustles out to the car with him, almost floating through the passenger door just as he closes it.

***

“Yes, he said his name was Holmes.” John is explaining to Dale. He is sitting rather primly in an armchair in front of the fire of LOPNI’s receiving room and Dale is spread out over the old leather sofa next to him.

“Naw, couldn’t be. That Holmes guy, he’ll eatcha’ alive, John. Couldna’ been him.” Dale takes a long drag of the cigarette he’s holding, the dim light of the room glinting off his watch as he does so.

Dale’s never been one of John’s favorite people, but John feels like he needs to understand. “Listen, that’s not even the important part of the story. The important thing is that I saw three children and the Nortons never had any…”

“Four. You said four.” Dale interrupts.

“What?” John asks as his train of thought completely derails. “No, I….actually, I guess I did. There were three. Janey, James and a baby named Mary Beth.”

“They spoke to you?” Mike asks, his eyes open in amazement and a jovial grin spreading across his round face. After putting the tray of tea things on the coffee table in front of the sofa, he grasps John by the shoulder before shoving at Dale’s feet and taking the end of the couch for himself. Dale grumbles a bit then sits up.

For an instant, John lets the memory of what happened in Mrs. Norton’s kitchen wash over him. For some very odd reason he doesn’t understand, he feels like he should not mention Ophelia. In everything that Dale and Mike have recently told him about Sherlock, not a single thing about the young ghost girl was mentioned. John may not always be the brightest lightbulb in the pack, but he knows when he’s been shown something unique.

Thankful for the hot tea, even at this hour, John busies himself making a cup while Mike and Dale discuss John’s report. When he was starting to feel like he could fall asleep right there, an odd silence falls and he blinks his eyes, his mind registering that the other two men are staring at him.

“John, what about the EVPs?” Stamford asks again.

“Oh! Right here,” John says, tugging the little device from his pocket.

“Thanks,” Dale tells him as he accepts it. “I’ll run these in the morning and get back to you tomorrow.” Dale stubs out his cigarette in the battered ash tray on the table and takes his leave.

As soon as he’s gone, Mike regards John quietly. “Aye, that Holmes, he is really something. How is it you’ve not heard of him?”

John shrugs. “Honestly, I’ve no idea. He’s a bit of an arse, if you ask me. Telling me all that stuff about myself…”

“Ah, John, give him some credit. Out of everything I’m sure he said to you, was any of it false or secrets buried deep?”

“No,” John agrees with a slight head nod as he drains his cup. He places it back on the tray.

“He’s the real thing, John, a bona fide psychic. Look him up. I’ll go out with Dale tomorrow if you don’t mind holding down the fort?”

“Sure, it will give me a chance to type up my thoughts about tonight.”

With that, Mike gives him a polite goodnight and heads towards the door. Before opening it, though, he turns back to John. “John, be careful with him, alright?”

Absently nodding as he stares into the dancing flames in the grate, it isn’t until he is in bed that he remembers Mike’s exact words then falls asleep wondering what they mean. Shouldn't he have said 'be careful _around_ him?' All night his dreams are haunted by laughing children, lonely old ladies and vivid green eyes staring right into his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that the rating for this story will be changing ;D Thanks!


	3. Baggage

**Chapter Three: Baggage**

Wrong-colored flames lick at Sherlock’s face and fingers from a mentally untouchable world beyond his dreams. Soulless, almost colorless, void of emotion. Nothing. Except that everything right here and over there is black and white and grey like an Escher sketch steamrolled and flattened into a confusing matrix filled with nothing but a raging charcoal fire.

Sherlock’s rational side knows it should hurt; he knows that the fire should be burning him but the only thing he can feel is the weight and the pain of guilt. Redbeard is crying and baying, having given up on barking either minutes or hours ago. Time is meaningless here as is life.

There’s another voice intertwined with that of the screaming one belonging to the old house around him as with a bang like gunfire the rafters crack and split…that strange voice calling out, then there are gloved hands and a man in fire suit pulling him out but he’s screaming that she’s still in the house…she’s still in the house! What doesn’t anyone understand? He tries screaming in English, then French then Welsh and still no one is listening.

Without warning, everything is bright, colors leeching into one another while the unbiased, disloyal sun drives his sins out of the shadows and drags them, now fully hued, into the harsh light of day.

 

“Sherlock? Sherlock please?” Ophelia tugs on her brother’s shoulder as hard as she can, though she’s starting to grow weak from holding onto her corporeal body for so long without resting. Outside the windows, the sun is just doing its level best to break through the heavy grey clouds looming over the horizon. It still hurts her to hear him cry out like he does because it is surely her fault. On top of the obvious nightmare, the way he’s twisted up in his chair in the sitting room looks so uncomfortable as to be painful, even for someone as limber as Sherlock.

“Ophelia?” he asks, blinking, chin balanced on his knees. His dazed expression takes ten years from his face and she can’t help but rest her palm against his cheek. He tries to look up at her and winces from the crook in his neck and quickly reaching up to grasp it lightly with his fingers. She’s almost fully corporeal at this hour.

“I’m here.”

When he doesn’t say anything else for a moment, she perches on the arm of his chair, caging her small hand in his bigger ones. She waits, knowing that it always takes him a little bit to calm his racing heart and bend his mind to his will. That doesn’t happen this time, however.

Sherlock looks up at her, green eyes overflowing with tears and rimmed in red. With concentration, he’s able to haul her down into his lap in order to hold her against his chest, the bottom of his chin resting against top of her head.

“Ophelia, I am so very sorry. I’m so sorry,” he whispers between gasps.

All she can do is hold on tight and bear silent witness to the limitless depths of his turmoil. If she tries hard, she can almost feel his feather light touches.

***

Feeling a bit silly, John waits patiently at Mrs. Norton’s front door. While he stands on the wooden porch, he makes a grand effort at ignoring the majority of things that happened last night, especially any details about a tall, mysterious ‘consulting psychic’ that have been intruding on his thoughts every five minutes or so. He fiddles with the EVP device he stuck in his pocket on the way out of LOPNI’s headquarters; he tells himself that the reason he is here is only about her case and nothing else.

John can hear Mrs. Norton shuffling about, calling out to him that she’s coming. It is probably beyond rude to be here this early, though he knows that sometimes older people get up before the sun. Judging by the warm light in the kitchen window, it appears he isn’t too far off the mark. After all, she did tell Mike that they could come by ‘anytime’ once they started on her case. The wonderful smell of homemade scones follows her when she finally cracks the door and sticks her head out to greet him. The aroma is backed by a pleasantly mellow light that spills out into the grey morning.

“Mr. Watson, is it?” she asks politely, pushing the door open wider now that she’s recognized her visitor.

“Yes, ma’am, Misses Norton. I know it is a bit early for a social call, but I’m wondering if I could ask you some more questions about your husband?” He queries, remembering what Mike told him about referring to spirits in the present tense so as not to upset the living.

“Sure, Mr. Watson. Tea?”

John nods his answer to the affirmative and steps up onto the creaky wooden threshold. Once inside, he allows the creature comforts and the quaint atmosphere to relax his mind. Surely he will see the ghosts again, and he’ll finally be able to do the job he’s been hired to do.

***

Two hours later and John is beyond disappointed. Absolutely nothing has happened since he’s been here except that he’s stuffed full of blackberry scones and drank three cups of tea. The EVP device in his pocket has remained so quiet he’s actually wondering if the batteries in it are dead. Mrs. Norton is still chatting away as she idly sets the kettle to boil for the fourth time. John’s head and bladder are both beginning to swim so he politely asks if he could use the loo. Mrs. Norton, or rather Edwina as she informed him earlier, points down the hall to John’s right and he gives her a warm smile as he exits the kitchen.

John finishes his business and washes his hands in the old sink, taking a moment to appreciate the marble basin and handcrafted mirror frame hanging above it. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees a bit of movement but just as quickly he writes it off as wishful thinking. There’s nothing here, at least now anyway. Maybe he was so exhausted the other night that he fantasized the whole thing? He dries his hands on a tiny pink and green floral print towel that smells like lilacs, thinking that he’ll have to excuse himself in an effort to try and get on with his day.

That sounds like a reasonable idea, anyway, until he steps out of the loo, walks three paces and winds up with his face planted in a man’s chest. With a surprised grunt, he pulls away only to find himself looking up into green eyes he hasn’t hardly been able to get out of his mind in the past fourteen hours or so. He stares so intently that he almost doesn’t feel the EVP machine going bonkers in his pocket.

“We meet again, Mister Watson.” Sherlock’s chocolate-and-cream baritone threatens to take John out at the knees.

Somehow he manages to keep himself upright and not blurt out how much he detests being called ‘mister.’ Clearing his throat, he tries for a bit of levity, “Mr. Holmes, I presume?”

Sherlock merely quirks his left eyebrow and continues to stare at John as if he’s some new insect species heretofore unknown to science. As if sensing he’s not going to get much from the other man, he drawls, “And the reason for your visit to Mrs. Norton is?”

John knows that Sherlock is going to recognize the lie before he tells it, but his mouth is like a fully laden freight train and there’s simply no stopping it now. “I’m here about her case.”

“Her case?” Sherlock frowns, the action causing a deep crease over his nose.

“Yes, her case. Mike wanted more information…”

“Ah. Michael Stamford said he would look into the case of Mister Norton haunting this house. Well,” Sherlock pauses dramatically.

John wonders if the man knows what those long, dark eyelashes and eyes the color of fine jade are doing to him. And that mouth. God.

For the smallest instant a hint of pink touches Sherlock’s cheekbones then he pulls back, still eyeing John closely. “As Ophelia told you last night, Mister Watson, Mister Norton’s spirit is lingering here out of a misguided attempt to protect his wife. The best thing you and the rest of Michael’s crew can do is an exorcism. He’s as much a fool in the afterlife as he was in this one. You may leave now, with my blessing.”

It takes three full seconds for John to catch up. Realizing that he’s been virtually dismissed, he widens his stance and stiffens his shoulders. “And on whose authority do you get to tell me what to do?”

Sherlock doesn’t move, only stands there. To John, it’s like he’s blocking the entire hallway because Sherlock is all John can see. He can feel others around, but whether they are living spirits or those trapped between worlds, he couldn’t say at this point. He’s torn between decking the pompous arse and kissing him.

“As if I would answer to anyone else…” Sherlock is saying. His expression is rigid and there’s a particularly knowing smirk plastered on his lips. “Just go. You aren’t needed here anymore. Let the professionals handle this job.”

John counts to three. Slowly. Backwards. If he doesn’t, punching the tall git may win out. He steps back the three paces from before and winds up standing on the threshold of the bathroom.

“You wouldn’t actually hit me John.” Sherlock sniffs.

John really thinks about it. And again. Still, erring on the side of politeness, he pushes past Sherlock on his way back to the kitchen only to find that the ghosts are back.

Once again, Ophelia is at the kitchen table with the three ghosts whose acquaintance John made last night. James and Janey offer him polite nods while Mary Beth gives him a smile and a funny gesture with her hands that he takes to be a wave.

“Hi kids,” he greets them without thinking.

Mrs. Norton turns away from the hob where she’s fussing with a fresh pan of scones and grins at him. She’s got a bright pink oven mitt on her left hand. “Well, I’d like to thank you for the compliment, John, but somehow I don’t think it’s truly meant for me.”

“Actually, Edwina, you said that you and Mister Norton never had children. Correct?”

Edwina nods then tugs off the oven mitt. “Aye, that’s true.”

“By any chance, do you know who lived her before the two of you?” John asks as he pulls out the chair next to Ophelia. She smiles warmly before turning back to Mary Beth. The baby has a tight grip on Ophelia’s right index finger and is grinning as if she’s getting away with something.

Edwina rests her hands on her hips and turns her eyes up towards the ceiling, looking thoughtful. She starts to answer John but is interrupted as Sherlock strides into the room, coat tails flapping behind him.

“You don’t have to answer that, Edwina.” Sherlock states, looking directly at John.

“No, it’s fine, Mister Holmes, really…” The woman looks a bit concerned, however.

Sherlock steamrolls right over her. “John, I do believe I asked you politely to leave.”

“Politely?” John stammers, getting to his feet. He doesn’t think that he’s given Sherlock permission to call him anything other than Mr. Watson. “If that’s what you consider polite…”

“Just leave.” Sherlock points towards the door as if helping.

Ophelia frowns at her brother as she slips her hand away from Mary Beth’s little fist and glides to stand beside him. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” she says out loud, though the question falls on deaf ears.

John watches the quick exchange but doesn’t really see anything now except for Sherlock. He continues to hold the other man’s gaze for several long seconds until Mary Beth begins to whimper. Unseen by either John or Sherlock, Ophelia goes to her and picks her up, crooning soft words.

Finally, John breaks the tension by taking a deep breath. “Fine.” He turns to Edwina. “Thank you for the lovely scones and tea. Perhaps I will see you another day when you have less company.”

“You are more than welcome, John, any time.”

“No, you aren’t.” Sherlock mutters as John passes him.

Wisely, John says nothing else. He closes the door softly behind himself and pulls the keys to the company van from his pocket. Without thinking about it too much, he also takes out the EVP device. Once again, its face is lit up like Harrod’s at Christmas. Damn. He was so distracted that he forgot to hit the ‘record’ button. Mike’s going to kill him.

Even more irritated now, John races the engine a little too hard and it cuts out on him. He drops the EVP device into the seat next to him and rests both hands on the steering wheel to give himself a break for a few seconds. After counting to ten, he tugs on his seat belt and restarts the van, taking his time backing out of the driveway. On the twenty five minute trip back to LOPNI’s headquarters, he steadfastly ignores the little machine, completely missing the way the screen goes blank the farther he gets from Newham and Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Family Ties

**Chapter Four: Family Ties**

Two nights later and it’s once again well after midnight. John is perched on the top step of a staircase leading up to an attic of yet another old house in the suburbs. He’s tired and about fed up with everything in general, but more specifically with this whole business. Maybe it’s time to find something else. Surely there’s a surgery out there that would hire him to sign off on absence slips or something. He stretches his legs and crosses them at the ankle, perturbed. Both Mike and Dale swore that there was activity here last night, so where are the spirits now?

John stares daggers at Dale’s outrageously expensive EMF meter lying on the step beside him. He hasn’t touched it since he sat down up here. Earlier, it had been pinging and bleeping at him, letting him know that it’s picking up the occasional change in the magnetic and electronic fields inside the house, but for all he knows the damned thing could only be reading his own life signals. It isn’t his favorite instrument, but Mike insisted that he bring it out here at least this once. He does his best to ignore its now rather loud silence.

Sighing wearily, John tugs the EVP machine he usually has with him out of his front pocket. He’s starting to think it’s broken because it hasn’t worked properly for him since that morning at Edwina Norton’s house. The idea of the Norton residence only causes further irritation in his mind.

The way Sherlock Holmes sent him away! Just bloody well dismissed him! As if he were an outsider, someone who knows nothing about the ‘other’ worlds that exist alongside…

John lets his thoughts spiral off. Perhaps Sherlock’s right. Maybe he really is useless, unable to tell a corporeal spirit from one that seems to only exist in the realm of thought. What about those three children from the Norton house? He tries hard to remember what they appeared to be wearing. He couldn’t see James or Janey’s feet, but the baby was dressed in a white cottony looking dressy-like thing and her little feet were bare. Strange now that’s he’s remembering it, all three of them were definitely not dressed in modern clothing. He casts about his memory in an effort to place their outfits, but comes up empty handed.

“I wonder when they died?” he asks the presumably empty house, voice echoing slightly as it bounces off the bare walls. Instantly, as if conjured up by some unknown magic, Ophelia Holmes appears beside him, causing the EVP reader in his hand to vibrate like a hot tea kettle. John has to grab the EMF meter before it falls down to the floor below.

“I could tell you that, if you really want the answer,” she says as if she’s been sitting beside him all night.

John opens his mouth to reply but nothing happens. He stares at her for a moment and she stares right back, haughty know-it-all expression painted over her features and left eyebrow cocked at him as if daring him to question her expertise.

“You don’t need to ask me what I’m doing here. I’ll tell you that. My brother is deep in the corridors of his Mind Palace as a last-ditch effort at finding out Edward Norton’s deep, dark secret.” She rolls her eyes towards the ceiling.

“Apparently you don’t believe he had a secret, then?” John asks, not looking at her but staring at the two devices in his hands, the EVP reader in his right and the EMF meter in his left. Lines and squiggles are dancing over both screens. “How is this possible?”

“That?” Ophelia asks, pointing at the EVP reader.

John nods, eyes still on the little screen, following her index finger, her voice right beside his ear. “Well, that one, there, see? That’s me. Now say something,” she commands.

“Hi Ophelia,” he says quietly, noting that the orange and yellow spikes only barely register his voice. “Wow. This thing must really work then,” he turns towards her only to feel a bit unsettled when he realizes he can see the horrid mauve wallpaper on the wall beside them through her striped blouse.

“Oh get over it,” she snipes as she leans back on her elbows. “I’m dead. Can we move on now? After all, you’re the ghost hunter.” The last word drips like black licorice off her tongue.

“I take it you don’t respect me any more than that Sherlock bloke, then?” John wonders.

“Actually, for someone with so much psychic talent, sometimes my brother’s an idiot. He’s really terrible with the living.” Ophelia tells John sagely as her fingertips tap against her leg.

It takes three heartbeats, but it finally connects in John’s brain. “Sherlock, he’s your brother, then?”

Ophelia nods.

“Right.” John agrees, setting the instruments back down beside him, pushing them away from the edge of the steps. “Where is he, then?”

“Oh,” she starts, looking around as if someone else could hear them. “Around.” She shrugs her shoulders and does not look at him again.

John frowns, knowing the girl has completely blocked his question. “Okay, well, you’re here. Make yourself useful and show me some ghosts.”

Ophelia laughs, shakes her head and stands up, beckoning him to follow her further into the attic.

***

Sherlock strides pointedly along a long, brightly lit astral projected corridor populated on either side with doors of various makes and sizes. He turns his head, studying each until he finds the one he’s looking for.

The brass knob turns easily at his touch, swinging open to allow him to take in what is happening in the huge dining area complete with heavily laden tables, chairs and a crowd of people milling about. Men and women of all ages greet him with soft smiles or a brisk wave of a hand.

Sherlock acknowledges them all, one by one, taking note of the name badges his subconscious has chosen to add to their clothing, the styles of which span decades. He weaves between them, finally stopping in front of a stately, elegantly attired white haired woman. Her name badge has two sets of numbers written on it: her birthdate and the day she died. Two important times Sherlock knows so well he doesn’t really need to see them.

“Sherlock,” the woman says, her green eyes lighting up with joy as she turns her face up to his.

“Mummy,” he states softly, reaching out and catching her hands in his.

“What brings you here, son? You aren’t…” she tightens her mouth against the words she refuses to say, instead pulling one hand from his grip in order to rest it against the side of his face and pull it down so she can see him more clearly.

After a moment, she nods. “No, you aren’t. I’m more proud when you stay away from that stuff, Sherlock, than when you have to fight to get yourself out of its clutches.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

Mummy Holmes studies her youngest son closely for a moment, knowing very well she isn’t going to get any more out of him on that subject. “Well, come on then, let’s have a chat.”

Sherlock stays on her heels so as not to lose sight of her in the room suddenly densely populated with figures. She sits down in a white chair next to a small round table and Sherlock takes the other one. Mummy snaps her fingers. Before she’s finished the motion, however, she seems to have conjured up a small pot of tea and two cups.

“There, that’s better.” She nimbly holds her cup in long, graceful fingers. “Ask me.”

“Mummy…” Sherlock tries.

“Don’t you ‘Mummy’ me, Sherlock. I know you’re only here seeking knowledge. So go on, ask away.”

Sherlock rests his palms flat on the table and studies them for a few seconds. “I gather you are doing well. And Daddy?”

Mummy nods, her eyes flashing as if hurrying him along.

“Have you met Edward Norton in your astral travels?”

“Edward Norton?” Mummy asks, rhetorically. She taps at her tea cup with a long, well-manicured fingernail. “Could you be referring to Eddie?” Tilting her chin, she indicates a tall, frail looking gentleman over in the corner. He is dressed in a WWII uniform, though Sherlock cannot make out the details.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Wrong Eddie. I will have to keep looking.”

Sherlock stands to leave but Mummy grips his arm with amazing strength. “Are you well, my son, besides…”

Sherlock hears the left out part of her sentence but does not acknowledge it. He tucks his chin towards his chest. “I am.” A large part of him wants to blurt out that he’s found someone rather interesting, though it is easier to say nothing.

“Your siblings? Are they alright?” Mummy’s expression is relaxed now, openly curious, caring.

“Yes, Mummy. I will send them your love.”

“Thank you, son.” Mummy squeezes his forearm briefly.

***

Sherlock opens his eyes. He can see clearly where the sun is beginning to warm the horizon. For a few minutes, he stares out the window blearily, slightly irritated at himself for falling asleep, but then again, astral projection is draining on anyone with the ability to walk between the worlds. The way they always look to him, filled with the tiniest details and all the color, even more so. This morning, however, his sober mind is slow, like a machine carefully grinding to a start.

Stretches, he’s glad to find that he didn’t tip over and fall out of the chair this time. Frowning at the window then the front door of the small house his parents lived in prior to their deaths, it suddenly occurs to him that he’s alone. One day they’re going to have to do an experiment and find out just how far Ophelia can travel without him.

Sherlock starts to call Ophelia, then thinks not. Instead, he closes his eyes again and leans back into the chair. Very carefully he pushes all other thoughts aside until he can only see her face in his mind. The instant the calling works, the atmosphere in the old house changes and he opens his eyes to see his little sister standing in the center of the room, arms down at her sides, and an expression of pure amazement on her face.

“Wow,” she grins. “It worked this time.”

Sherlock smiles back at her, a bit weary still.

“It took a lot out of you, though.” Ophelia crosses the floor to drop down on the sofa. She’s solid enough right now that she raises a small cloud of dust.

Sherlock nods as he draws his legs up beneath himself in the chair. “It did. I spoke to Mummy, she sends her love.”

Ophelia blinks up at him, eyes suddenly gone watery. “I wish I could have known her better.”

Sherlock’s insides scream at him to fix whatever he’s managed to break this time. He casts about for the right thing to say and blurts out, “Where’ve you been all night?”

Ophelia is taken off guard, but the tactic works. “With John Watson.”

“What?”

It’s her turn to smirk at his truly surprised expression now. “Stamford has a case at the house next door.” She points in the direction of the brown brick house neither of them can physically see from where they sit.

Sherlock scoffs. “I’d have thought that place would finally be left to crumble to bits alone by now.”

“I know,” Ophelia agrees, “but once in a while one of the spirits gets up to knocking about and all the ghost hunters come out of the woodwork.” She curls up in much the same manner as her brother after kicking off her shoes. “I did show him the boxes in the attic, though.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, just rolls his eyes. Ophelia yawns. “Go on, we’ll stay her for a bit. I’m going to try again to find someone who knew Edward Norton.” He watches her as her whole being shifts until she’s almost transparent. Sleeping like the dead, he thinks then wonders if John found anything interesting among the worn out belongings of a traveling illusionist. That leads him to thoughts about having Ophelia go over there and cause a bit of mischief so that maybe he can observe John a little closer, maybe learn about him.

A flash of insight so bright it threatens to burst out of him forces Sherlock to his feet. It seems as if John may be useless when it comes to seeing spirits, but the man certainly has courage by the ton.

Sherlock returns to his former position, thinking that if he can keep this fellow away from the Norton case, perhaps they can find common ground elsewhere. First point: obviously John does not like his job and is probably only putting up with it because he and Stamford are old friends. Second point: when Sherlock is astrally projecting, he cannot move and therefore is stuck only working on a single case a time. Ophelia can only go so far…

The idea that finally occurs to him is absolutely ridiculous, but then again, he wouldn’t be who he is if he didn’t entertain every possibility all the time. Satisfied he’s made arrangements that will work to benefit them both, Sherlock lets his eyes fall on his sister then settles back to again search for someone with answers beyond the tangible world.


	5. Viciously Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watery moonlight is now peeking from between the clouds overhead, highlighting the rain-licked curls artistically flattened around Sherlock’s face. Even from where he’s standing, John can clearly see that his eyes are glittering with a thrill that he decides in that instant he wants to understand.

**Chapter Five: Viciously Lovely**

“John. John, don’t move.”

John looks up from where he’s studying an oddly faded patch on the wall to see Sherlock haloed in the doorway by the outside light. He’s in the middle of popping up his coat collar, hands now still, fingers resting on the thick wool. John’s ingrained instinct to react at the commanding boom of Sherlock’s voice nevertheless doesn’t stop the part of him following orders from the other part thatt's admiring the view.

“Good!” Sherlock shouts across the dining room, letting go his collar and holding one hand up high as if beckoning someone. “Now, walk towards me.”

John frowns at the sickeningly obnoxious wallpaper that seems to now have something crawling beneath it. He steps back quickly, hands out in front of him as if to ward off an attack. Seeing spirits is one thing, but he's fairly certain he didn't sign up for creepy crawlies. Curiosity and horror mingle in his brain and he stares at rippling wall.

“I have no reason to believe it will hurt you, John. Come on.”

Sherlock beckons to him again, though that isn’t what makes John beat feet to the doorway. He turns to look over his shoulder just as the wallpaper rips and some dark, almost shapeless, thing is materializing out of it.

“Bloody hell!” John shouts as he dives for the door.

Sherlock shucks his coat as John ducks beneath his outstretched arms and Sherlock slams the door. John hits the pavement on his knees, completely blinded by a layer of expensive wool. His heart is pounding in his throat.

After five seconds, he gets his breath back and slowly pushes Sherlock’s coat off his back. Trying to escape the penetrating gaze being leveled in his direction, he pats his pockets.

“Mike’s going to kill me,” he mutters. “I’ve left the EVP meter behind.”

“No, it’s right here. It fell out of your pocket when you did that baseball thing you just did.”

That catches John off guard. “What?” he asks, checking to see if Sherlock recently grew a second head; apparently not. There's so much going on in that statement, he has no idea whete to start.

“Seriously, that was quite entertaining, John. You should do it again sometime.” Sherlock continues.

Is that little smirk actually a grin? John shakes his head. “Well, maybe ten years ago, but no thanks.” He brushes his knees off, giving his brain time to catch up. Best to ask the most important questin first. “What the hell was that thing, anyway?”

“You call yourself a ghost hunter,” Sherlock snarks, sounding vaguely amused. He’s produced a cigarette and a silver lighter from somewhere and now he’s leaning against the brick house, taking a drag. The fag is tightly clamped in one corner of his mouth and he’s talking out of the other one. A lazy tendril of smoke hangs in the air between them. The neighborhood is quiet, the majority of its residents sleeping.

John doesn’t say anything as he rests his laurels on the stoop, his back towards Sherlock in a effort to hide his expression and red cheeks he can feel. Better to stare out into the darkness than keep staring at that mouth and wondering what other talents it possesses.

“That was a Class Three Demonic Entity, my dear Watson.” Sherlock drawls.

John can easily picture smoke rings in his mind but he’s sort of stuck on ‘my dear.’ Once again, he decides to leave it for the time being. “Right,” he agrees. “A Demonic Entity isn’t a corporeal spirit.”

“A Class Three is. You just saw it. Actually, I’m not even going to handle this one, I know a couple of siblings who are best at sorting the angry ones*.” There’s the distinct sound of thumbs flying over the keyboard of a mobile as Sherlock rapidly sends a text message. “I hope they’re both going to come this time…”

Without hearing him move, especially after listening to him mutter darkly to himself, suddenly Sherlock is right beside John, offering him a hand up. John nods sharply and accepts the help. With the other hand, Sherlock hands him the EVP machine. The little screen shines like a tiny sun, all lit up red and orange. He glares at it before realizing that Sherlock is moving towards the street.

“I guess I owe you my thanks.” John calls, taking two steps for each one of Sherlock’s before the psychic turns on his heels, coat fluttering behind him in the breeze kicking up.

“Anytime, John!” he calls out, waving one hand in the air. The supple black leather of his gloves has a definite shine beneath the street lamps.

John stands dumfounded for a moment, realizing that not only did he fail to actually do anything, he also completely forgot to ask Sherlock how he knew what was happening. Shaking his head again, he starts looking for a cab.

(* yes, I do mean Those brothers.)

 

***

John is beginning to think he’s losing his mind. Never before has he experienced so much spirit activity and it’s starting to take its toll on him. He's mentally exhausted; maybe this is why Sherlock can be so churlish on occasion. What must it be like, to see this stuff all the time?

This job he's on right now, though, nothing out of the ordinary is happening. There’s hasn’t been even any creaks or thuds. Nothing. Nada. No objects being thrown, no weird entities busting through walls.

Jack shit.

He sighs and stretches his arms over his head, letting his eyes close as he makes a last ditch effort to relax his mind on the ancient sofa in the sitting area of an empty four-bedroom house in Barking at one o’clock in the morning. Well, the owner, Thomas Maximillian, said ‘house’ but John’s tending towards calling it a mini-mansion in his own head. Its vaulted ceilings and a bathroom the size of John’s bedroom sort of make it seem that way.

Whatever it is, it is empty save for this terrible sofa that smells like wet dog with an undercurrent of I-probably-don’t-really-want-to-know. Thomas insists that he’s being haunted by the ghost of his former lover, Raymond. Apparently Raymond died of cancer five years ago, but the haunting only started seven months back—yet the house is as empty as if it’s sat this way for decades.

John decides to give it one more try. He yanks the EVP meter out of his pocket, takes note that it is still dark and huffs, the sound loud in the empty house. Idly, he thinks about Sherlock then Ophelia. Sherlock’s had the odd habit the past three months of showing up wherever John happens to be. Sometimes his sister does, too. With the two of them, but mostly just Sherlock, John's found himself beginning to loke his job. He certainly enjoys writing out reports with more than three words in them.

Admittedly, John finds himself looking forward to seeing Sherlock more than actually doing his job, if he’s completely honest. He crosses his legs at the ankles where they’re hanging over the arm of the sofa and drops the hateful little meter onto his chest. He’ll close his eyes for five minutes and then he’ll check in with LOPNI HQ and report that total lack of anything happening. Again.

***

A five minute nap actually turns into two hours. John wakes up with a start, swearing that someone or some thing touched his arm. He writes it off as exhaustion and being keyed up over the waste of a night and hits the button on the blue tooth in his ear.

“Ah, John, you haven’t joined the fifth dimension yet, I hear.” Dale is entirely too exuberant for three AM.

“Aw, Dale, not in the mood tonight. This place is as desolate as a public gym on Thanksgiving.”

“Aye, Captain, hear you loud and clear. Over and out.” Dale says happily.

God, to be twenty five again. “Night, Dale.” John tells him, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. He rolls his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness from being idle settling in. Locking the front door and slipping the key back under the mat, he decides to walk for a little while in hopes that the exercise will work some of the kinks out of his back. It’s a decent night, anyway, a little cool and damp but not enough to deter him.

***

It has started to drizzle some and John has almost had enough walking for one night when a flash of blue-red-blue-red lights and a screeching siren catch his attention. He quickens his step and checks down several alleys before he finds the one cordoned off by an investigative crew. He wanders closer and closer towards the yellow tape barricading a floodlit area in the corner where two big buildings meet. From his current vantage point, which happens to be facing directly into a pair of enormous lights that are set out on the ground. The steady but gentle fall of rainwater could easily be diamonds the way they catch the bright beams.

A rumpled copper with a cigarette in his mouth is leaning against one of the walls. John can just make out a glint of silver in a headful of hair that looks as if it’s been a while since it had a date with a comb. The man is mostly in shadow but John can that he’s holding what is presumably a coffee cup in his hands. John observes him a little more closely as he shifts on his feet and thinks that maybe the copper should be mainlining the stuff when he turns his eyes in John’s direction. He looks so exhausted that even if he did, he’d probably only look tired.

The policeman turns away from John and John follows his gaze towards two figures on the ground. Obviously, the one laid out flat is the victim and the other one, surprise, surprise, is Sherlock Holmes. He peers around to see if Ophelia is anywhere in sight.

Without conscious effort or awareness, John steps close enough to the barricade to grasp the top line of tape in his hands. He cannot make out what’s being said over the patter of the rain, but there’s no mistaking the deep, carrying timbre of Sherlock’s voice. Glad to see that apparently he’s been forgotten, never mind the reason, John has to fight the irrational urge to stomp over the line and make Sherlock explain himself.

He knows better, though. It’s not like that had any type of long standing commitment. Just because someone happens to show up on every one of your cases for a few weeks doesn’t mean you’re dating or anything. Twelve weeks, to be exact. John quells his urges, however, reminding himself that he has no claim on this man’s time. He tells himself that interrupting someone’s work is childish and rude, and that’s all there is to it.

He watches Sherlock, though, never taking his eyes off him even as his fingers fiddle with the EVP meter in his pocket because it just started beeping at him and he doesn’t really want to draw attention to himself for fear that he’ll be told that he has no business being there. The rain begins to slack off as Sherlock stands up from where he’s been kneeling beside the body on the pavement for the past fifteen minutes.

John involuntarily gasps. Watery moonlight is now peeking from between the clouds overhead, highlighting the rain-licked curls artistically flattened around Sherlock’s face. Even from where he’s standing, John can clearly see that his eyes are glittering with a thrill that he decides in that instant he wants to understand. Regrettably, John is discovering that he cares less about what’s happened to the poor sod on the ground than to finding out how to make Sherlock look at him that way.

John doesn’t even know he’s not breathing until Sherlock is less than a foot away from him, eyes locked with John’s. A new voice intrudes into his thoughts, diverting his attention from the viciously lovely vision in front of him. It is almost physically painful to turn away.

“Aye, mate, who are you?” the copper with the silver hair asks as he pulls up a section of the police tape in order to bend beneath it. Up close, John admits he’s certainly striking but the image of Sherlock and moonlight is now burned into his brain.

“Lestrade, this is John. He’s a ghost hunter. John, Lestrade. What are you doing here?” Sherlock says in a tone that pretends desperately to be gruff.

“Mike sent me over to Mr. Maximillian’s house, it’s not too far from here…” John starts to explain.

Sherlock waves a hand in the air between them. “You were not scheduled tonight.”

“There’s no set schedule, Sherlock. The client called, I was free, so I went.”

Sherlock looks at him as if searching for something. “Hmmm,” he says.

Lestrade clears his throat. “If that’s all, you should take your date somewhere a bit more romantic, Sherlock.”

“Usually, I just see him while he’s working,” Sherlock offers while John sputters. “Never mind, John. Lestrade, the address is seventeen seventy seven, if he’s not there and the red shoes are missing, you’ll find him at the Jitterbug.”

“The what?” John finally has the presence of mind to ask.

“Just a case. George told me that Richard is a top-billed drag queen at one of the city clubs. George thought he’d try it out, but Richard thought he was being upstaged and now Lestrade has a murder on his hands.”

John stops as Sherlock slides into a cab he’s managed to conjure up out of nowhere. He glances down at his watch, surprised to find that he’s been standing out here for almost an hour.

“Well, come on, John. The seat is big enough for both of us.”

Sherlock and the cabbie are both giving him strange looks.

“Right,” he says with a sharp tilt of his chin before sliding into the backseat beside Sherlock. After a few moments of silence, it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask where they’re going, instead, however, he finds his clumsy tongue blurting out, “What do you mean George told you? Isn’t George the victim here?”

“Quite right, John. Sometimes the best evidence comes from the victims. After all, they’re sort of there when it happens.”

John isn’t sure where to go with that statement. “That’s amazing.”

Sherlock huffs a short chuckle. John decides to sit back and enjoy the ride, wherever it is going to take him. When they pull up in front of St. Bart’s hospital, John starts to enquire whether he should follow, but Sherlock answers him by gesturing towards the building as he pays the cabbie. He strides ahead, intent on his purpose.

John stares after him, considers his options and trots to catch up with him.


	6. Invitation to a Haunting

“Sherlock, Mycroft will be here in a moment.” Ophelia warns her brother from her favorite perch atop the back of the sofa. All she receives in reply to her effort, however, is a pointedly unsatisfying grunt.

Sherlock is stretched out the opposite direction on the cushions below her, one forearm draped dramatically over his eyes and the other resting languidly over the violin lying on his chest. With his hair a messy halo around his head, he looks for all the world as if he were sculpted there and has no intention of moving for the next fifteen years or so.

“Sure lock!” Ophelia fake whines, reaching down with one bare foot to poke at his shoulder, forcing him to move one of his hands.

Sherlock uncovers his eyes and glares up at her. Ophelia laughs and continues to poke him with her big toe until he swats at her and she rolls off the back of the sofa right onto to him. Only for a second, though, then she disappears, only to reappear in Sherlock’s chair with his bow in her hand. It makes a soft whooshing noise as she waves it back and forth.

Mycroft chooses that very fraction of time to make an appearance in the sitting area. He halts two paces from Sherlock’s chair, staring at the violin bow as it seemingly bounces in midair. “That’s her, isn’t it?” he asks in an uncharacteristically small voice, visibly restraining himself to keep from pointing in the direction of the now twirling bow.

Sherlock sighs and sits up, glances towards his sister who rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out at him. Turning to Mycroft, he states simply, “Yes,” not giving Ophelia the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting on his nerves.

The half-awed expression does not fall from Mycroft’s face. “Why can I not see her?”

Sherlock frowns at the odd tone. For an instant there, he would almost swear it sounded like wistfulness. A deeply buried memory accosts him in full force: a much younger version of himself trying desperately to see through their late uncle’s closed casket. The memory of saying words that weren’t his own is as vivid now as it was when it happened, apparently important secrets their uncle needed to tell his wife and wondering why he could hear but not see the dead man. Sherlock couldn’t understand anything that was happening to him. Mummy and Mycroft had both looked at him in shock, but while Mummy’s expression quickly changed to fear, Mycroft’s teenaged self seemed much more understanding. He can still feel the pressure of his brother’s palm on his shoulder even as the memory grows hazy and fades back into the ether where it belongs.

Now Ophelia is staring at him, holding the bow as if it’s a giant pointing finger, though Mycroft seems to have either missed Sherlock’s tiny lapse in attention or is choosing not to acknowledge it. Whatever the case, Sherlock returns to himself and takes a moment to cover his eyes with his hands in a bid to hide whatever emotions must surely be playing out on his face.

Sherlock moves the violin to its case and Ophelia follows him to set the bow down carefully beside it. Ignoring Mycroft for the time being, he makes his way to the loo and then to the kitchen. He’d rather not know what his brother has just inferred because some things are better left alone.

“I’d ask for tea, though I’m certain there’s not a single leaf of it in this house.”

“Nope.” Sherlock calls from behind the refrigerator door, popping the last ‘p’ in the word. He stares at the almost-bare appliance in an effort to figure out what he could do to irritate Mycroft the most. There’s never anything particularly gross in the crisper when he really needs it.

“Sherlock, could I have your attention for a scant instant, please?”

Sherlock doesn’t think Mycroft sounds nearly irritated enough. “Not interested!” he shouts much louder than is absolutely necessary. The barking at the back of the house starts up in earnest, though he soon hears Ophelia taking care of that particular problem. Eagerly, he awaits the sound of Mycroft’s retreating footsteps so he can return to being busy doing not much of anything and pretending to not wonder what John Watson is up to right now. By some mistake on his part, they haven’t seen each other in almost a week. Why did the spirit world decide to become dormant _right now_?

Muttering under his breath, he peeks around the edge of the door to see Mycroft comfortably seated on _his_ sofa. Dammit. Well, there’s no getting around it this time. He sighs again, deeper and much more dramatically than the first time as he stomps back into the sitting room, being sure to raise enough ruckus that Mycroft will understand how much he’s put Sherlock out by just talking to him. Plopping down in his chair so hard it rocks on its antique legs, Sherlock glares at his brother from beneath his messy fringe.

“It would have been hilarious if you fell backwards on your arse with all that territory marking you’re doing.” Ophelia says. Since only Sherlock can hear her, he figures his silence speaks for him loud enough.

“Thank you,” Mycroft tries for politeness, though he does frown and turn his head slightly to the left when Ophelia settles next to him. “I have a case for you.”

“How many times do I have to tell you I am not interested in James or Janey, Mycroft? I had those Americans, Whichever you call its from North Carolina or West Carolina or one of those states. There’s fifty of them, choose one.”

“Sherlock, there is no such place as West Carolina.” Mycroft raises his left eyebrow a fraction of an inch.

“Dull.” Sherlock snaps. Ophelia giggles and rolls her eyes.

Mycroft, completely oblivious to his youngest female sibling’s taunt, continues. “About ten years ago, a serial murderer was convicted and sentenced to death in Florida. That’s one of the fifty states, I do believe.”

Ophelia chuckles. Sherlock glares and begins chewing on the edge of his thumbnail. Mycroft raises the eyebrow a teeny bit higher and plunges on before Sherlock can say anything else.

“My team helped convict Daniel Hudson by providing the local police force plenty of evidence for said conviction. That being the case, I am on relatively friendly terms with the murder’s widow, Mrs. Martha Hudson.”

“Don’t care.” Sherlock intones, now miraculously folding and draping all six feet of himself over the chair so that his feet hang off one arm, his shoulders against the other, and one hand over the back off the chair, the fingers on the other resting against the carpet.

“Aw, Sherlock, this one sounds interesting.” Ophelia tries before very carefully reaching out to touch the back of Mycroft’s right hand where it is resting on his thigh. It is a long-standing tradition between the three of them to test both how far Ophelia can go and how much Mycroft can sense.

Mycroft startles ever so slightly and his fingers seem to reach out of their own accord. “I felt that this time. Is she near?”

Sherlock snorts. “Near enough.” Ophelia flips him the bird and does her best impression of Mycroft’s weary expression at the same time.

“Fine. May I continue?” Mycroft’s eyebrow is now trying to scoot into his hairline.

“No,” Sherlock drawls, “but I obviously can’t stop you anymore than I can stop you from eating anything with the word ‘cake’ in its name when it is presented to you.” He taps his fingertips on the worn carpet as if timing a melody only he can hear.

The melody, though, happens to be Ophelia doing the same thing on the arm of the couch. “Stop it.” She admonishes.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffs, finally raising his eyes to Mycroft and taking in the fact that Mycroft’s hand is now turned palm up. Neither sibling knows exactly who the comment is directed to, so neither answer him. Ophelia’s hand is resting in Mycroft’s. “Is it cold to you?” he queries, raising his eyes to his brother’s.

“Yes. There is a bit of weight to it.” Mycroft says carefully, his eyes wider than usual. “Ophelia, hello.”

Beside him, Ophelia nods, her blue eyes the size and color of a fine Wedgwood plate. Sherlock wants to ask her what she is experiencing, though if he does so, he’ll have to share her answer with Mycroft and he’s not about to do that after being interrupted so rudely in the middle of the day. This small thing is too momentous to share with someone who’s just going to take all the credit for it.

“Get on with it.” Sherlock demands, watching Mycroft intently as he oozes to the floor to sit on his behind with his back against the chair.

“Sherlock,” he says again, his voice much softer than normal. Ophelia flashes her best Cheshire Cat grin at him and winks before fading out, though the happy expression is almost ruined by the tears falling down her cheeks.

“She’s gone,” Mycroft states.

“Yes. It is hard for her to stay on this plane in daylight.”

For a brief time, there’s a relaxed mutual understanding between the brothers, both respecting what they’ve lost. Finally, Mycroft clears his throat and stretches his fingers as if trying to warm his hand. Sherlock gives him a single nod of understanding.

“To cut to the chase, Mrs. Hudson is claiming that she is being haunted by the spirits of her dead husband’s victims.”

“If he was executed in America, why would the spirits be here?” Sherlock asks, curiosity finally piqued.

“That is exactly why I need you on this case, Sherlock. He had six victims in total, four in Florida and two here in London. She is offering quite a substantial fee for your help.”

Now it is Sherlock’s turn to frown. “Why aren’t you getting your pet psychics in on this one?”

“Because she wants the best.” Mycroft voices bluntly before exiting the room as quickly as he entered it.

“Did he just compliment you?” Ophelia asks from the shadows of the hallway. She is only a shadow herself and would appear to those only a few perceptive people as little more than a glimmer.

Before he can turn over that particularly vexing question, Sherlock’s mobile vibrates on the kitchen table. He fetches it to find two text messages, one from Mycroft with Mrs. Hudson’s information and the other from John Watson.

***

John stares at his phone wondering what has gotten into him. The dark screen seems to be making a mockery of the confusion swirling through his mind. He hasn’t seen Sherlock or had a case of his own in over a week, which has left entirely too much time to think. Shifting his weight on the hard park bench where he’s been the past half hour, John has to admit that those few hours he’s been at Sherlock’s side over the past weeks have felt so…well…something. That’s hard enough to admit, there’s no way he’s supplying any more descriptions for it.

John has made a valiant attempt, in his mind anyway, to think around these strange ideas, though so far, all he’s done is send a text message to the psychic. The delay in the answer is probably the only answer he’s going to get, so he really ought to get up and find something worthwhile to do. He has to face the facts sometime and realize that someone showing up at your job a few times might just be a coincidence, after all, they move in the same circles. Just coincidence. Doesn’t mean anything. Certainly doesn’t mean Sherlock is into John…

John’s phone vibrates in his hand. Ignoring the way his palms have suddenly broken out in a sweat, he swipes the screen, heart pounding in his throat. He reads both messages, starting with his own.

_Busy? Interested in a coffee sometime?_

The simple answer from Sherlock threatens to burn him alive.

_Anytime._

Fingers trembling, John clumsily pecks out a reply.

_What are you up to at the moment?_

Sherlock’s answer is so fast, John wonders if he had it prepared in advance.

_I have an interesting case. Busy?_

John can’t help the grin that takes over his face. Finally, something useful to look forward to!

_No. Coffee first?_

The next text he gets is an affirmative reply. Sherlock says he will meet John at a small café about three blocks from the park where he is now. John smiles, tucks his phone back into his pocket and starts walking.


	7. Coffee, Confessions and Chaos

**Chapter Seven: Coffee, Confessions and Chaos**

It should be enough, John thinks, to have the ability to sit across this ridiculously small table and watch Sherlock’s borderline aggressive expression as his fingers fly over the keyboard of his mobile. He knows better than to ask who he’s communicating with, because there’s only one living being that brings out this particular level of irritation. Over the past few weeks, John has discovered how much he enjoys watching Sherlock work, even as the consulting psychic took the reins of John’s own cases and not any of the credit. And that is why this should be enough; after all the help he’s given John, perhaps it seems a bit ungrateful to be mentally lusting after anything more.

John sighs under his breath.

Doing someone else’s job and not taking any sort of kudos for it is one of the things John has been meaning to talk to him about. Mike and Dale seem to be of the belief that some sort of latent power buried deep in John’s psyche has been set free and he sure he won’t be able to keep up that lie much longer. Eventually, something big is going to crop up and there’s no way he’ll be able to deliver and being alone and penniless in London right now would be a very bad idea.

Relaxing his too firm grip from around the steaming paper cup in his hand and taking a deep breath, John mentally prepares himself to have some sort of heart-to-heart discussion with Sherlock that he secretly hopes can be both of those things without being either of them. As per the usual, though, Sherlock beats him to the punch.

“John, I don’t always take credit for all the cases I solve. It keeps my mind from stagnating, from dwelling on those things I cannot solve. Surely you already knew that?”

John takes a sip of his coffee, winces and sets the cup out of the way. He rests his elbows on the table then laces his fingers together and offers what he hopes is a relatively benign expression in Sherlock’s direction.

“Are you ill?” Sherlock asks, narrowing his eyes.

“What? No. God, no!” John drops his hands into his lap.

Sherlock hums and turns back to his phone when it pings. Finally, after two minutes, he thrusts it into his pocket with a rumbly growl. Reaching for his coffee, he sips it, frowns and gently replaces it, casually sliding it to the farthest edge of the table.

“Terrible,” he mutters.

John could easily be offended, but there’s no point in it really, especially when he agrees with Sherlock’s assessment. “Well, then…” he starts just as Sherlock clears his throat.

“Allegedly, a woman named Mrs. Hudson is being haunted by the ghosts of her murderous dead husband’s victims. Since you don’t have anything on at the moment, are you still interested in coming with me?”

John nods, letting all the other things he’d wished to say filter to the back of his mind. “Tell me about it?”

“I don’t have too much to tell you, other than Daniel Hudson was fifty five when he was executed in Florida for the brutal stabbings of four university-age females.”

“That’s bad enough.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock answers, tilting his head slightly, eyes flashing. “He was extradited to America after killing his last two victims here in London. As much as it pains me to admit it, my brother, not me, was responsible, in part, for apprehending Daniel and ensuring his subsequent execution. Mrs. Hudson lives over on Baker Street.”

“Alright then, after you.” Still unable to take his eyes from Sherlock’s, John stands and pushes his chair in, using one hand to make a sweeping gesture towards the exit. Sherlock shoots him half a grin and follows suit.

They leave together and John turns to make his way to the Tube, though Sherlock redirects him towards a waiting taxi with a hand on his shoulder. He takes note of a distinct feeling of loss when that hand is taken away as he slides across the back seat to make room for Sherlock’s legs.

Sherlock rattles off the address to the cabbie who agrees without a word and John does his best to ignore the heat pouring off the lean body next to him. Soon enough, they pull up in front of a restaurant called Speedy’s and Sherlock pays the driver. John joins him on the stoop in front of a glossy black door and can’t stop himself from smiling back when Sherlock beams at him.

“Well, here we are, two twenty one Baker Street.”

***

After a moment of pleasantries and knowing looks from the pleasant older lady who answered Sherlock’s knock, they are first shown around her flat then led upstairs to the one on the second floor. Mrs. Hudson unlocks the door and opens it wide, allowing them both to see inside simultaneously.

John takes a long look around the room, noticing the coating of dust on what furniture is there, the antique wallpaper and the ceiling that could do with a fresh coat of paint. Three bookcases, one tall, two short still have a few old looking books on them. Even so, it seems too nice of a place to be empty. A stray thought occurs to him then.

“Why would the spirits be up here?” he asks, turning to face Sherlock who seems deeply interested in examining an old leather bound book on the shelf closest to the window. No one breathes for a second and John can clearly make out the muted sounds of traffic on the street below them.

“That, John, is an excellent question.” Sherlock gently returns the book to its former resting place and grasps John’s shoulder. “How long has it been since you moved from up here? Never mind, I’d say at least…” here he reaches out with his index finger, running it through the layer of dust on the window sill. “…three months. And you haven’t cleaned up here?” Sharp eyes scan the interior of the room, seeing the minutia that John can only aspire to. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he drops his gaze to Mrs. Hudson’s face as she clasps her hands tightly together.

“You hit the nail right on the head, Sherlock.” Mrs. Hudson looks so dreadfully uncomfortable that John wants to take her back to her flat and make her a fresh pot of tea.

Sherlock says nothing, else, however; the tightness in his jaw as he glances about again gives John the impression that he’s tightly reining himself in. With a curt nod, he stalks towards the back of the place.

“Mrs. Hudson, we will take your case,” his voice booms from an unseen room.

John agrees, though he’s not exactly sure how much help he’s going to be. “Do you mind if we hang out here a bit?”

“Not at all,” Mrs. Hudson informs him as she pulls a set of keys from the pocket of her purple dress. “Here, there’s two sets there and if you need anything, I’ll be downstairs.”

John accepts the key ring that she drops into his open palm. He smiles, hoping to reassure her. She thanks him and makes her way downstairs. John watches her and waits until her door closes before closing and locking the door to this flat. He picks his way through the sitting room, pokes his head into the small kitchen then follows the sound of muttering to a large bedroom.

“…and what did you see?” Sherlock is asking, body angled away from the doorway. He’s crouched down, running a hand beneath the bed. Early morning sunlight weaves its way from the bare window to gracefully highlight the amber tones deep in Sherlock’s raven curls. John blinks in an effort to hide the image from his own mind.

“I’m sorry?”

“John, haven’t you be listening? Stop woolgathering and tell me what you saw in the kitchen.” Sherlock commands, dropping to his stomach and scooting beneath the mattress. The dark soles of his leather shoes stick out, the toes rubbing against the carpet as he speaks. “Go on.”

John frowns, wondering exactly what it was he should have been looking for.

From under the bed, Sherlock huffs, sounding entirely too petulantly composed for a person in his position, which really is quite ridiculous by John’s standards, anyway. “Just tell me what you saw in the kitchen.”

“How do you know I was even in there?”

An exasperated sigh is answer enough.

“Alright. Fine. But it was only for a second. It looked normal enough, small range, fridge—which I did not open by the way—wooden table with two chairs.”

“….”

Irritated with the lack of an answer to his description, John settles himself on the end of the mattress. He thought he’d been getting better at this observing things business, perhaps not. Sherlock’s shoes begin to slide away from him and he watches, more fascinated than he’ll admit, as the man himself slowly slithers up so that he is kneeling between John’s legs. And oh my god, isn’t that a sight? John’s heart decides to start a new rhythm and he swallows around a tongue that suddenly weighs a ton.

Sherlock levels his gaze at him, and John realizes he’s been staring. A faint wash of pink stain colours Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones and a thrill of heat runs up John’s spine, despite the coolness of the air in this empty bedroom. The silent flat seems to offer permission by remaining mute on the subject altogether. Neither man moves, each simply watching the other as if waiting to see who’s going to make the first move. Slowly, Sherlock leans forward to balance himself with his palms on John’s thighs. Something new, something like the static in the air during a lightning storm crackles in the short distance between them. John decides to ride it out, gently grasping the back of Sherlock’s neck with one hand and bringing the other up to the side of his face, absorbing the heat of his slightly stubbly skin.

There’s a short bit of possible rejection here, but only for a second because Sherlock leans in even closer and swipes at his bottom lip with the neat pink tip of his tongue. In that instant, John throws all caution to the wind and decides that chasing that tongue with his own is the best idea he’s had in ages.

And then Sherlock is right there, long fingers digging into the denim covering John’s thighs, lean body pushed against John’s chest and their lips together somewhere in between. John grunts under the suddenness of Sherlock’s shift in movement, raising both hands to cradle the back of his head, fingers tangling in the soft ringlets there.

***

Sherlock takes John’s groan as permission and pushes inward even more until they wind up with John on his back and Sherlock above him, their hips aligned and hands now everywhere. He can feel John’s hands smooth down his back from his head until they come to rest on his waist just above the swell of his buttocks. He wants to tell John he can touch but unless they stop kissing, he will be unable to do that, and stopping this is beyond him at the moment.

John’s tongue probes at his mouth and Sherlock opens up, letting him in, though the cost to his own psyche is greater than he will ever let on. Images pop behind his closed eyes and he fights against the knowledge that perhaps John isn’t ready to share these memories with him. They’ve never discussed the past beyond short snatches of conversation here and there, because mostly they’ve only been working together.

Sherlock knows that is a lie, even in the deepest recesses of his own mind. Reluctantly, he pulls away and stares down at the beautiful sight of John’s blue eyes grown dark, his well-shaped mouth red from kissing. John’s lips twist upward in a smile while his hands finally grasp Sherlock’s arse, firm and somehow gentle at the same time.

Sherlock clears his throat, stops himself from going back to the kissing and instead rolls his hips a little, eliciting another groan from John, who bucks upward in order to meet Sherlock in the middle.

“We haven’t really been working together, have we?” John asks softly into the charged atmosphere.

“In the beginning.” Sherlock pauses, pushes a stray hair off the top of John’s ear, feels the heat in his face and knows he’s blushing like an idiot but says it anyway. “Though I do believe many people would consider us to have been dating since the third or fourth case.”

John actually laughs and Sherlock wants to taste it. “Why haven’t we done this, then?”

Before he can say it out loud, Sherlock finds their positions flipped, John’s thighs bracketing his hips, straining erections pressed together. The pull of desire between them is the full force of the electromagnetic spectrum, a stop in time when crucial decisions are made.

Sherlock decides to trust his intuition and raises his legs, circling John’s waist with them and hooking his ankles together to firmly align their clothed cocks together. It is almost too much, almost painful and certainly not enough. 

“I don’t know John, but I really don’t think we should stop. The kissing, it is rather enjoyable.” Though ‘enjoyable’ is a weak term, not expressing the full range of Sherlock’s thought on the subject. As if to add a full stop to his sentence, Sherlock reaches down to where they are so close he can’t see anything and deftly unzips John’s jeans.

“Oh my god,” John says, voice entirely too clear for this situation.

Sherlock tilts his head back and finds himself staring into the soulless dark eyes of an apparition that has absolutely no business being where it is.

 


	8. Apparitions and Absolution

**Chapter 8: Apparitions and Absolution**

Sherlock locks eyes with the apparition for a long, cold moment. The chilly calculating expression on James’ young features stirs a cauldron of fear deep in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach he thought long buried. His psyche is bombarded with images he’d hoped no one else had ever seen. He swallows, throat gone dry then angrily breaks the staring contest. In the back of his mind, he can hear a high, nasty laugh; he can see a flash of white teeth as he turns his head to look up at John.

John is still poised over Sherlock, palms planted on either side of Sherlock’s head. Though he cannot truly see the ghost, he can clearly pick up on the distress signals Sherlock is sending out, not unlike an animal caught in a trap.

“Sherlock?” he asks, puzzled at the sudden change in the air between them. To him, the phantom on the bed is nothing more than a ripple in the air the way asphalt looks in the blazing midday heat of the desert.

“John, I…” Sherlock tries, eyes darting to where James has now crouched on the mattress above his head. The boy is on his knees, black eyes flashing with mischievous intent. The thickness of the tension in the old room is a pendulum over Sherlock’s head: he has a choice to make and it is now or never. He knows he must choose between telling John the truth and risk him walking away for good or lie and hope the truth never gets out. Even though John can’t see James right now, it doesn’t mean the ghost cannot communicate with the man nor does it mean John won’t always be unable to see him. The answer is clearly cut, then.

In the very instant he makes up his mind, however, there’s a loud bang in the direction of the kitchen and a high pitched peal of laughter. When Sherlock catches sight of him one more time before he disappears, James’ expression has hardened, his thin lips pursed in a tight line.

Sherlock closes his eyes, illogically hoping that maybe his overstimulated brain is just making stuff up. When he opens them again, however, the stricken look on John’s face tells him everything. Carefully resting his hands on John’s hips to stop him from moving, Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“John, I’ve something to show you and I cannot do it here.”

“Alright,” John answers with a sharp nod, stifling the almost burning need to ask Sherlock what the hell just happened. “What about Mrs. Hudson, then?”

Sherlock takes in John’s gesture towards the kitchen. “Indeed, there are certainly spirits here, but while they may be strangers to her, they are not strangers to me. As well they are not victims of her late husband.”

John frowns and scoots backwards off of Sherlock in order to stand up. “Really?”

“Yes.” Sherlock levels his gaze at John for a moment before saying anything else. “My only promise to you is that all of this will make sense once I’ve shown you what I need you to see.”

For his turn, John also takes a moment to compose himself. There is a distinct feeling of being on a crossroads here, but he’s also got the impression that it is necessary in order for anything between them to move forward. Whatever it is that Sherlock needs to show him, it must be pretty serious and it is obvious taking an emotional toll on the psychic to do it. John is not going to back out on him now.

“Lead on, then,” he states firmly.

***

John relaxes against the backrest of the seat in Sherlock’s car. If he were to call the thing ‘well loved’ and a ‘mechanics special’ he would probably still fall short of actually being able to describe it. In its former life it was a Ford of some type, a four door saloon that probably saw its last really good days in about nineteen eighty five. The interior could use a bit of seeing to, actually, John thinks, it could use a bit of yanking out and putting new back into it. The way the engine purrs, however, as Sherlock deftly shifts gears, at least attests to some care paid to it.

Sherlock seems uninclined to speak so John goes back and forth from watching him drive to looking out the windows. The sun is slowly sinking in the sky, John unconsciously taking note when they leave the busy streets of London and head out towards the country. There are less cars on the road now and even less things to see, so with the hum of the engine, he allows himself to fall into a doze.

“John, we’re here.” Sherlock says a little while later.

John stretches his arms and legs before stepping out into a surprisingly large drive way and turning to face a surprisingly large house. Like the car, John thinks that the house could use some care. He grins when Sherlock grabs a light fixture hanging by the front door in an attempt to put it back into place. It comes off in his hand and he tosses it back to John without missing a beat as he unlocks the door.

“What do I do with this?” John asks as he follows Sherlock into a small foyer. They walk into the sitting area and John manages to keep all his questions silent as Sherlock stares around the room.

“She’s not present at the moment, come on.”

John shrugs. Sherlock leads them past the kitchen, a staircase that he says leads up to the bedrooms, and down a rather longer hallway than seems possible. At the end of the hallway he stops and presses a switch on the wall. A bare bulb above their heads flashes feebly before finally coming on and lighting up what seems to be an entire wall made of canvas. John looks up at Sherlock, almost taking a step backward when he takes in the stricken expression on his face.

“Sherlock that is starting to worry me. Give me something to go on. Your dead parents aren’t stored back here or anything are they?” John tries for a bit of levity, but Sherlock’s expression changes from one of pain to horror, though his answer is anything if not cryptic.

“No. Mummy only lives up here.” He points to his head. Without giving John time to think anymore, he pulls back the canvas. It kicks up a cloud of dust, then there’s a shredding sound and then they are both looking into a cavernous area with black walls.

“That’s not black paint,” John says aloud then takes a deep breath, smelling and almost tasting the lingering aroma of burnt wood.

Sherlock only shakes his head. He takes another deep breath as if steeling himself against something, draws up to his full height and slowly explains.

“No, it is ash, you are correct. There was a terrible fire here seven years ago. As horrible as it was, it could have been worse.”

By the light of two more bare bulbs on opposite ends from where they stand, John stares around the room, clearly taking in how the back wall is missing, though there is most of another canvas tarp covering it. It crinkles and groans as a slight breeze from outside presses against it.

“I’m really not going to like this story, am I?” John queries, walking around the room. He doesn’t touch anything, choosing only to peer down at what was once a sofa, a throw rug and possibly something vaguely familiar. He reaches down and picks up what at first seems to be a pile of rags, but after brushing it off with his hand, turns out to be a doll about the size of a real baby. Its plastic face is half melted away, single blue eye staring at him accusingly. He looks up to see where Sherlock is, only to find that he hasn’t moved, seemingly rooted to the spot.

“We don’t have to talk here.” John says, his voice pitched low.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I think you need to hear this from me.”

John meets his gaze, the pleading look in his eyes and he can no more tell Sherlock not to say any more than he can control the tides. Brushing off a spot on a reasonably safe looking armchair, he sets the doll in his lap, crosses his legs and says, “Go on.”

Sherlock’s eyes are already far away when he begins to speak.


	9. Truth

**Chapter 9: Truth**

Ophelia Holmes stands in the doorway of her older brother’s bedroom, staring at his lax form. She watches him twitch and jerk in his sleep and tries to tell herself he’s only exhausted from his twenty-second birthday party that Mummy threw for him yesterday.

In truth, though, she knows he’s high as a kite and probably will be out at least another twelve hours. She doesn’t really like to think about it, but it’s not like anyone else here is trying to deny it.

“He won’t talk to me when he’s like this,” Ophelia mutters to her companion. The oddly-dressed boy beside her is levitating off the floor about six inches so that they’re on eye level with one another.

“Ah, Ophelia, he’s in a state of bliss. I’ll bet he’d talk to you if you were able to get on the same plane he’s on.” The boy smirks, his brown eyes dark and filled with malice. He reaches up and smooths his black hair into place from where it has fallen sloppily over one eye then fiddles with the buttons on his pristine white shirt.

Ophelia glares at him a little because what she’d rather do is actually smack his arm like she does her brothers, but there’s no use in attempting to hit something less than solid, a lesson learned early in their acquaintanceship. “Jimmy, you know there’s no one like Sherlock. He says he only uses that stuff to shut down the voices in his head.” She rests her hands on her hips and turns her attention back to her brother.

“Look, Ofie, he’s even left some out for you!” A girl a little younger than Jimmy has appeared on the opposite side of the bedroom, one long finger pointing at the little mound of white dust still piled up on the top of the chest of drawers.

“No, Janey, I don’t think it is such a good idea…” Ophelia starts to back out of the doorway, but Jimmy bobs up right behind her, his mouth close to her ear.

“Think about it. Really. Then you would haven’t to be stuck here all day all alone. Imagine if he stays this way for the rest of your Christmas holiday? Hmmm?” Jimmy croons, the soft Irish lilt of his voice making her brain feel like mush.

“Watch me! It’s really nothing!” Janey calls as she dips her finger into the pile and then licks at it with her tongue. She’s almost solid right now and Ophelia almost forgets what she really is.

“No!” Ophelia cries with a shake of her head. Jimmy is nothing more than a memory but Janey hangs in midair a second longer as Sherlock bolts upright, then she, too, is gone.

“Ophelia?” he asks, his voice raspy, eyes cracked open against the weak winter sunlight.

“Just me. I was…I was checking on you.” She takes a couple of steps closer, unconsciously reaching out.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock half snarls as he jerks his arm away from her. “Go find something to do. I’ll be up…”

As he drops his head back to the pillow, Ophelia sighs. With a weary expression much too old for her face, she pulls his blankets up and covers him. She looks at the mound of white powder one last time before leaving the room and turning her thoughts to keeping herself occupied for the day. Perhaps Mummy or Mycroft might come home early today and play chess with her. In the meantime, if she can find something engaging to do, Jimmy and Janey will stop bugging her about the stuff in Sherlock’s room.

***

“Sherlock, you don’t have to tell me any more of this.” John runs his fingertips over the doll’s sooty hair. He is no psychic, but he’s got a pretty good idea where this story is heading. Sherlock’s gaze is far away and he knows the other man is not aware of him in this moment.

John takes another deep breath and tries to decide whose broken heart he’s going to have to mend first, Sherlock’s or his own.

***

A week later, Ophelia takes Jimmy up on his offer and tries the cocaine. She tries to tell herself it is so she can experience what Sherlock is going through, maybe find out what it is that is so noisy inside his head that he has to shut it up. In the first few seconds before her body reacts to the foreign substance, she makes up more than one excuse, but in truth, she is simply a lonely thirteen year old stuck in a big old house with no one to talk to most of the time but a pair of malicious ghosts and a strung out brother.

Well, and the puppy Mycroft brought home two days ago. Ophelia likes the pup well enough, but she’s never been much of a dog person and has less idea what to really do to train him even more so than Sherlock knows what to do when it is just the two of them at home. She didn’t even name him, Sherlock did, calling him ‘Redbeard’ so she just kept it.

She’s stretched out on the sofa in the sitting room and suddenly the world is filled with colors. Perhaps she can rainbow to catch up and Sherlock will digestives listen and he will share purple with her all the chaos in his silly brain his super swift treacle intelligent mind that mushrooms and pizza and American telly I like rock and roll on the jukebox Mummy what’s this for? It is cold in here and I need to build a fire… red fire is so pretty…thank you Jimmy, you can be a good help chocolate bars Sherlock always knows what pudding we are going to say before we say it…did I tell you orange Mycroft said sometimes not the truth our dead uncle and…

Oh. Yellow.

It is hot. The colors are burning.

Jimmy? I can’t breathe.

Janey?

Janey, please let me out of here.

Where’s Redbeard?

Janey…Janey…no. Don’t go now…Jimmy?

Sherlock?

Anyone…

***

By the time Sherlock smelled the smoke it was too late. Something about the horror of waking up high and finding your house on fire sobers you up very, very quickly. As foolish in his bravery in his state as he always is even as he ages, he fights through the flames until he finds his sister, her striped blouse singed and hair blackened with soot.

And he knows. He now knows the where and the how and the who. What he doesn’t know is the why. Anger burns his bones until he’s crying, Ophelia in his arms and he’s begging her not to do this, not to be gone, but her small body so much like his own is heavy against his chest and her mouth is slack and her eyes…her blue eyes so glassy. Her eyes stare through him, accusing him of not caring enough about her wellbeing to stay sober for seven fucking hours. Even through his tears, he can see the burns on her arms and legs. Sherlock lets himself feel every blister, every moment she suffered as the smoke filled her lungs. It is no more than he deserves and oh, he knows, he deserves much, much more.

Everything from that point on is crystal clear, the dull edges of the memories honed to a sharp edge, to ever be a precision tool to cut through him and leave terrible wounds that refuse to bleed. The paramedics come and they take her away from him, even though he begs them to let him try to bring her back. They tell him it isn’t possible, she’s gone. He’s there, then, a messy-haired figure on his knees in the middle of the street, head bowed and weeping with utter grief when the skies open up with rain that is frozen solid before it hits the pavement.

***

“They’d been haunting our house since my first case two years previous. I made the mistake of calling in an exorcist, who only made everything worse. Granted, he managed to force out the twisted spirits of two children responsible for their parents’ and their own deaths, but in doing so he also gave them free will.” Sherlock finally stops speaking and drops his hands to his sides. His expression is one of a man who has just been gutted with a butter knife when he turns to face John fully.

John is quiet as he processes all of the information. Finally he stands up from the sofa, the doll still clutched in his hand. “Come on,” he commands without stopping to allow Sherlock time to argue or balk. He walks right past and doesn’t stop until he’s perched on a stool at the breakfast bar in the kitchen and Sherlock is opposite him.

Sherlock’s eyes are wary now, both haunted and hunted.

“I’m not going anywhere. That was the past. I have to ask, though, do you still get high?”

Sherlock looks down at the counter top. “I haven’t done it since you showed up at the crime scene.”

John nods, satisfied with that answer for now. There’s more pressing things to attend to, however. “Tell me about your first case. You’d already figured out what was happening inside your mind, yes?”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Being able to talk to the dead is a rare gift, even among those with my skill set.”

John almost smiles at the way Sherlock refuses to give his gift a name. “You are a true psychic, then?”

“No, I can’t see the future. I can, however, learn about the past through means most people are unable to.”

“I got that, yes. Tell me about your first case.” John shifts on the stool then reaches out and rests his hand over Sherlock’s.

“There really isn’t much to tell. I went in blind, without guidance, without help of any sort and was immediately in over my head. The Moriarty siblings were trouble from the start, setting small fires all over the house and mocking me by using my own memories. Instead of thinking logically, I grew angry and thought only to show them I was more powerful. As I said before, I called on an exorcist, the man was an idiot and now I’ve been chasing the same pair of apparitions from house to house for the past seven years. They’ve even appeared on a couple of my cases for New Scotland Yard, though I can hardly tell anyone there how two dead children are able to coax people into committing terrible crimes.”

John slips down from his stool in order to fill a black kettle sitting on the bench next to the sink. He sets it on the hob to boil then opens cabinets until he finds the tea. He holds back any words until he’s fixed two cups and set one down in front of Sherlock. Beyond the house, full darkness has fallen.

Ophelia has appeared in the kitchen in the meantime and now she floats behind her brother, her hands resting on his shoulders, tear-filled eyes watching every move John makes.

“That’s why you tossed me out on my ear at the Norton house?” John asks.

Ophelia nods, but Sherlock still feels the need to explain. “I was afraid they would do something to you or that you would find out that it is my fault my sister was killed.”

John sighs then sips at his cup.

“Don’t hurt him, please.” Ophelia whispers. Something registers in John’s mind at her words, something he can’t quite hold onto; someone else has said similar to him recently.

John raises his eyes to her then grasps Sherlock’s hands in his own. “Never. Do you understand me, Sherlock? It hurts, hearing this story and knowing what you’ve both been through. But to walk away from you now that you’ve opened your heart up to me? Never.”

Sherlock blinks rapidly, gripping John’s hands in his own. “Thank you,” he manages. Behind him, Ophelia smiles warmly.

“Good then. Let’s move on for a little while. How can we get rid of these devious phantoms once and for all?” John queries, taking one of his hands back to raise his cup to his lips. Both Sherlock and Ophelia look stunned and John can’t help the chuckle that escapes him.


	10. Sherlock's Journal Entry

**Chapter 10: Sherlock’s Journal**

**< unpublished>**

I want to get this out while it is all still fresh. Since the sun has not yet crested the horizon, I will take a few moments and gather my thoughts. Last night still seems surreal, even to one such as myself.

There was nothing else I could tell him, not at all. I did my best to explain, though I was unsure as to the methodology—explaining to someone who had not been through the experience was not ever going to be simple. Let alone the effort it would take to describe the necessary details to someone still missing data from denying the unseen or maybe that which is not readily apparent to the vast majority of the living population.

John Watson is most emphatically not the vast majority of the population.

Foolishly, because I did not yet trust him, I hurt him, early on in our acquaintanceship, when I pushed him away from the case at the Norton’s house. One day I will make him understand that it was for his own good that he had to get out of there. Had James sunk his metaphysical and figurative fangs into John’s already wounded psyche, even I would have been unable to see what would come next. It is selfish, I am well aware, but I could not live through losing someone else who has come to mean so much to me. The trust written boldly across his features every single time he looks at me has almost forced me to my knees more times than I care to remember.

Is it enough that I can admit it to myself if not yet aloud?

Now he knows the truth. It is out there, for better or for worse, as they say. He now carries with him the knowledge of Ophelia’s untimely death, Redbeard’s short life, and all of my personal sins. To say that this changes everything is surely an understatement. An understatement it would also be to make any effort to convey my own shock as he quickly grasped the entire situation is also more than a misnomer. Some of the weight of the thing seems to have shifted from me. I do not have the words to describe this phenomenon.

Ophelia seems to me more solid that before and with any small bit of luck, perhaps now she will be visible to Mycroft. I have not yet told him that John has always been able to see her as I am sure he already knows.

John is lying here beside me on this old bed in this house so filled with transparent secrets. We conversed long into the night and then he made the most extraordinary physical overtures towards me I have ever experienced. Every touch was both warm with emotion and the searing heat of the open flame that brought me to this point. Every low whisper in my ears filled with desire and I am still filled with wonder that I would ever have this effect on another.

John touches me as if attempting to reach below the layers of my skin to heal all the wounds to be found there. Some are less open than others, but I will say that it would be worth hundreds of wounds in order to be so well known to him. I would open myself up and let him see inside if that is what it would take to satisfy him.

He is stirring now and I want to kiss him.


	11. John's POV

**Chapter 11: John’s POV**

Ophelia unobtrusively left us alone a short time after our discussion moved from the tragedies to those who, at least in my mind, were primarily responsible for it. It is certainly ridiculous to loathe a ghost, to detest a being less than corporal is foolish, yet I cannot help the way I feel right now in the quiet lull while Sherlock stretches out in his sleep beside me. The musk of our lovemaking is still strong, the svelte heat of his naked body against me is an anchor holding me to this plane of existence. He is so alive in this very moment, though so very unaware of the wheeling circus of my thoughts.

I do not excuse him in the least for his own part in all of this, and I won’t say that with any quadrant of my heart that I condone his behavior, whether it be then or now. That is yet another conversation we will be having, though I strongly believe he’s done with it. I saw something in his eyes last night, something new that I had missed and the only way I can hope to put it into words is to describe it as the burning ember of the will to live.

He’s moved against my leg now, curly mop of hair tickling my bare thigh. I adjust the pillow behind my back and slowly let my palm rest atop his head as I try to keep pace with my memories.

Admittedly, I was not ashamed at the way I openly looked for any trace of cocaine in Sherlock’s bedroom once we were here. Taking it in at a glance, he stepped away from me and pulled open the top drawer of his bureau to let me see into it. It was empty.

“I’m sorry…” I started to explain away my mistrust on this one thing after so much had been said, but he waved away my words by shaking his head, those lovely curls bouncing softly against the nape of his neck. I reached up and carefully rested my hand there in order to pull him down to me in order to kiss him; an effort to say all those things that are difficult for me to let go of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry this is taking so long to update and for this short chapter. I'm not at home because we've not had power in several days. Hoping to pass 'code' tomorrow and be able to go home. Please don't think for a second this work is abandoned, I'm still writing it out by hand in a notebook. Thank you all for staying with me!


	12. Some Fluff

John opens his eyes and with a jaw-cracking yawn greets a new morning in an unfamiliar room. What he’s doing here it takes him no more than a few seconds to recall. He is stopped short mid-stretch when his thigh bumps against a large, warm lump that grunts softly. Smiling to himself, John gently palms the bare, lightly freckled shoulder nearest his reach. Inhaling the clean, musky scent of Sherlock’s unclothed self, John welcomes the sense memories from last night as they fill him from head to toes. Though he’s always enjoyed a close cuddle with a lover after a vigorous romp, there’s something different about this particular scenario. Certainly giving it a name would ruin it, so he slowly shuts down all his thoughts running in the direction of the word forming in the back of his mind that he’d rather not even whisper to himself in the dark in a cave so deep that it hasn’t seen daylight in twenty years. That hugely scary word that is only made up of four letters, the one that so many people banter about as if it is meaningless.

John’s attention is recaptured as Sherlock shifts again, his cheek resting against John’s leg and the rest of him curling about like a long, lean plant seeking sunlight.

“John, I can hear the gears whirring in your brain. Would you please tone them down a bit?” Sherlock drawls sleepily from his warm cocoon.

Looking down into the massive mop of ebony curls that is directly in his line of sight, John grins and tightens his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Mmm…baby you say the sweetest things to me.”

Sherlock huffs under his breath at John’s jocular tone, but John knows well and truly amused when he hears it. Shimming down so that he can put his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, he sets his lips against Sherlock’s ear and whispers a silly line from a terrible song he heard many years ago, “If you’ve got the money, honey, I’ve got the time.”

“John that is horrid. Don’t ever say it again,” mutters Sherlock against John’s chest. He’s slowly creeping upward as John sinks down further beneath the covers until they’re finally face to face.

Chuckling, John caresses the side of Sherlock’s face, reveling in the slight snag of stubble against the back of his hand. “Which part?”

“All of it.” Closing his eyes against the gentle touch, he is quiet for a moment, completely still. “Actually, the sixth word is fine if you use it sparingly.”

John frowns now, replaying the last thing he said and counting the words. “Honey?” he asks, incredulous.

Sherlock answers him by pushing himself off the bed with his hands and tilting his head in order to cover John’s lips with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, this story is nowhere near over, but I've got to apologize for the last few short chapters. Since I started writing this one, I've been robbed, finalized a divorce, not had power for two weeks and now I'm sick! So, yeah, me! Anyway, just letting you all know that it has NOT been forgotten nor abandoned. Thank you all for hanging in there with me, I hope to be back to normal very soon.


	13. Demons n Dreams

**Chapter 13: Demons in Dreams**

It’s that same familiar smoke wafting through his unconsciousness that brings him ‘round. But he’s not really in the moment; he’s certainly somewhere, and he’s upright…mostly…yet the whole scene is playing out around him once more.

This time it is more real than when it was actually happening. This time he grabs Ophelia from the floor and lifts her up and this time she opens her eyes. She speaks to him, tells him she is sorry for wanting to be like him, to do those grown-up things that pull his attention away from her. She says that she idolizes him and then her eyes turn red, her mouth gapes open, her perfect teeth lengthen into fangs and a blood-red tongue lashes between them and she begins to laugh as the air around him boils from the heat and a dog whines in its death throes.

Sherlock tries to scream, to plead for reality, but his voice is gone, lost in the smoky wind kicked up from the ferocity of the flames licking greedily at the walls surrounding them. Ophelia twists in his arms, her body all scales and sinew as she grips his shoulders, claws sinking in to her fingertips, raising bloody welts. Sherlock doesn’t question his lack of clothing, only his inability to save his little sister.

The scene shifts, a cooler wind dries the sweat, blood and tears from his body. He is still naked, on his knees in his bed, his cock buried balls deep in John’s ass. John’s perfect back and rump taut from the exertion, blond head bowed, arms quivering from the nearness of his climax. Though he cannot see John’s face, he knows there’s a smile on his face, even as his body trembles from the power behind Sherlock’s every thrust into the tight velvet heat that fixes them together.

Sherlock comes so hard that he loses his balance and drapes fully over John’s back. He remembers to reach beneath them and grasp John’s cock, bringing him off so that soon they are an overheated, satisfied pile of naked gratification. John’s panting is soft in his ears, he can feel every scratch of his own wiry pubic hair against the bare, sweat slick skin of John’s rear end; he’s more satisfied than he’s ever been high or ridding someone of their haunt.

Just then, John turns to look back at him over his scarred shoulder. Sherlock recoils in horror at what presents itself because he is not seeing John’s face at all, merely a young Jim Moriarty the way he was, except now with the added vicious bonus of twisting John’s features into a macabre parody of the unnamed affection normally found there; John’s skin is scarlet in the places where Moriarty seems to be pushing outward from the depths that will surely warp John’s bones. Instead of small, white teeth, he know possesses a full complement of razor sharp fangs. The worst of it all, even after all of this, are how John’s steely blue eyes are the color of blood.

Barely aware, Sherlock’s deep timbre breaks and cracks on a scream like a man in the throes of denial steeped in the darkness of long-held grief.

***

John’s heart is pounding and he’s searching for a place to hide from incoming IEDs before he even realizes he’s awake. When he crashes into something much softer than a concrete wall has dreamed of being, he reels backwards and opens his eyes to see Sherlock sitting up against his headboard, arms around his bent knees, eyes staring into space and his mouth open. He’s howling and the expression on his face threatens to shred John’s heart right where it lives in his chest. For a moment, John is lost; Sherlock is unreachable and it terrifies him to no end. Not to mention the horrible noises pouring from the psychic’s mouth.

Finally, his brain grabs hold of a long lost training film played for doctors caring for patients with PTSD and flashbacks. Very slowly, John moves out of what he thinks could be Sherlock’s swing range and simply starts talking.

“Sherlock, you aren’t alone. You’re here with me, take it easy and wake up.” At least John thinks he may be asleep, but this could be some sort of psychic episode, as well, and he is sorely ill equipped to handle anything like that. If he can just get Sherlock to snap out of it, maybe they can talk it out…

John’s tumultuous thoughts are brought to a halt when Sherlock suddenly goes very, very still and very, very quiet. His green eyes are almost black, his expression slack but filled with a fear unlike anything John recognizes. His normally pale skin is the cyan pallor of death in the faint light from outside the window yet one single drop of sweat makes its way from his hairline, down the side of his face and John can’t stand it another second, he reaches out and catches it on the tip of his index finger.

Staring at the clear droplet on his fingertip, John whispers Sherlock’s name once more. The atmosphere of the bedroom changes with a quick drop in temperature and the cessation of all sound. There only reason he notices it is because Sherlock finally blinks and really looks at him.

“John?” he asks, his voice strained and weary as if he’s been fighting an uphill battle by himself for hours in the worst weather imaginable.

“I’m here, Sherlock, right here.” John carefully reaches out only to find himself with an armful of consulting psychic.

Sherlock buries his nose against the side of John’s neck then wraps himself around him—octopus style. John can’t move, though the clammy feel of Sherlock’s bare torso against his own is more than a little disconcerting.

“Here, let me get this around you,” John states mildly, pulling the comforter up around Sherlock’s shoulders. He is trembling now so John scoots around until he can rest against the headboard and hold Sherlock against his chest. For a while they are both quiet and John closes his eyes, but not before noticing that the digital clock on the night table reads 7:05 AM.

Eventually, the trembling subsides and Sherlock pulls away from him in order to stretch out on the mattress. John slides down and copies his movements, crossing his arms beneath his head. Once again, they don’t speak but it feels to John like something needs to be said in order to clear the air. Since Sherlock’s not going to say anything, he decides it is up to him to break the ice. He begins by clearing his throat.

“Ok, I’m not going to ask you for exact details of your dream…”

“I was not dreaming.” Unwaveringly.

John frowns. “Right, then care to explain? You don’t have to tell me what you were dreaming about…just give me something to go on here.”

Sherlock slowly shakes his head, sweat-dried curls rasping against the bed clothes. “Not now. Think about it, you’ll know.”

Knowing full well Sherlock had to have been thinking about, or dreaming about…or in some psychic memory land where John cannot follow, well, _something_ about the night Ophelia was killed; that’s enough, he thinks. Let’s just move on from here. “Alright.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak again, merely rolls over and curls into John’s side, right arm resting over John’s belly, his nose against John’s shoulder. He is warm and seems to be doing better, so John sighs and allows his own mind to finally rest.

***

They are both awakened by a high pitched but rather muffled shout. John jerks upward as Sherlock rolls away from him, then notices two things simultaneously. Though it feels like it’s been hours, the clock on the night table is still reading 7:05 AM and Ophelia seems to be watching them through some sort of glass partition. They stare at each other wordlessly, each one as unsure as the others as to what is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaccckkkk! Did you miss me?


	14. Mental Walls

**Chapter 14: Mental Walls**  
Ophelia’s screams are oddly muffled in a way that is making John think his ears must have been plugged with cotton while he slept. Frowning, he turns to Sherlock who is openly, unabashedly staring right back at him with wide eyes, his beautiful mouth partially open. John stares, too, for five seconds, watching him release a breath he’s been holding. As the air passes through those heart-shaped lips, the vapor is thick like fog, yet John finds out that he can clearly make out his own name, as muted as it is.  
Everything around them is moving so slowly, like movie special effects or if they’ve suddenly been dropped into a vat of transparent treacle. John raises a hand and watches with fascination as his fingers seem to move through space filled with an invisible mass that he can nonetheless still feel. Sherlock closes his mouth, bright green eyes tracking every move John makes.

  
John’s fingertips brush against the side of Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock’s eyes soften a bit. “What is this?” John asks, his voice coming from his mouth slowly as he realizes that the temperature between them has dropped by tens of degrees.  
Sherlock continues to stare at him but doesn’t say anything.

  
John knows that look, now, however, and understands that beyond the slight flicker of fear in his lover’s eyes that Sherlock is working out what is happening, his mind as fast as ever despite the circumstances. For his part, John feels physically frozen, limbs and mind so heavy as to be almost numb.

  
After a moment spent taking stock of himself, he turns to where Ophelia has gone quiet, one hand over her mouth. She’s levitating slightly, about a foot off the ground, her entire body trembling. Her eyes, so much like her brother’s, are moving back and forth at a rate that would astonish anyone not already familiar with the pair of them, a fact made more astonishing that she seems so much more solid to John right now than she ever has before. John can even make out tiny variations in her hair color, see a mother-of-pearl pink tint to her fingernails that he’s somehow never noticed.

  
“John, listen to me,” Sherlock requests slowly, his normally deep voice made impossibly deeper by the preternaturally cold air surrounding them.

  
John turns his attention back to Sherlock, who is holding his big hands out, palm up. He rests his hands in Sherlock’s and the other man cradles them, causing a surge of warmth to pool between their palms, until it surrounds them like a well-loved blanket.  
“Relax, John,” though his tone is soft, there is no mistaking the command beneath the words.

  
John takes a deep breath, forcing his mind to understand that they are safe and just like that the ambient temperature of the bedroom goes back to normal. Ophelia drops to the bed and scoots to her brother’s side. Sherlock folds her beneath his arm but doesn’t let go of John’s hands.

  
“You know what that was, don’t you?” John queries, settling back against the headboard, overcome with exhaustion as if he’d been up for days without rest.

  
Sherlock nods, fingers tightening briefly against John’s. “It was a physical manifestation of your instinct to protect.”

  
John studies him for a moment, starts to ask what the hell that means when Sherlock interrupts, shaking his head slightly.

  
“Let me try another way. The only reason why you couldn’t see ghosts is that you didn’t want to.”

  
“Sherlock, what are you talking about?”

  
Sherlock's expression morphs into one of _do I have to explain it_? He closes his eyes and says, “I’ve seen what you think you hide from me. You took the job Mike offered because you wanted something different, you were mentally and physically exhausted when you came home.”

  
John makes an odd sound, but Sherlock plows on, ignoring the implied interruption.

  
“I know we’ve not actually talked about it, and I will not ask. Not you.” He pauses, dramatically taking control of the situation again. “I’ve done my best not to read it on you, but sometimes things are too obvious for me to miss. Somewhere deep down, you believed you couldn’t see the corporeal spiritual manifestations on this plane—yet you’ve been able to see and to sense Ophelia from the first time you were near her…so much so that you have unknowingly called her to your side.”

  
John considers this. He glances at the still nervous Ophelia and she gives him a brief smile completed with a slight tilt of her chin in agreement with her brother’s words. John is stunned into silence, and as he reflects on everything that’s happened since he first laid eyes on the consulting psychic, the truth hits him hard. When he meets Sherlock’s gaze again, there’s a smile on his face.

  
Sherlock grins back, Cheshire Cat like, as he already knows what John is going to say.

  
***

  
“Exactly, John. This new development will certainly be useful.”

  
Sherlock regards John closely as his lover moves from the bed to the bureau, taking in the gold and silver glints in his hair as he passes in and out of shadows and light. Even the knowledge that many of those are only in his own mind does nothing to diminish the effect. Sherlock shrugs inwardly, deciding that John deserves to be surrounded by a gold aura regardless of whether it is there or only in his imagination.

  
John offers him a quick grin as he heads towards the loo and Ophelia stirs against his side.

“Sherlock?” she whispers.

  
“Yes?” he answers, sounding a million miles away, even to himself. In his mind’s eye, he is still seeing the width of John’s naked shoulders, the strength in his muscular thighs and the expression on his face from a few moments previous. From some distance, he hears Ophelia speaking, but the words are senseless flutters of half-understood speech that do not reach his deeper thoughts.

  
Finally, she chuckles, hugs him briefly and vanishes. He moves his arm to be sure she’s really gone, then closes his eyes and brings his hands to his mouth. Admitting that he was at first devastated then delighted that John is unaware of the amount of psychic power he gives off like radiation was the first step a process that is very clear to him now. This new discovery is going to change _everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Edited April 20, 2017*


End file.
